Gallantry 


BOOKS  by  MR.  CABELL 

Biography: 

\  BEYOND  LIFE 
J  FIGURES  OF  EARTH 

DOMNEI 

CHIVALRY 
I  JURGEN 

THE  LINE  OF  LOVE 
I  THE  HIGH  PLACE 
I  GALLANTRY 
I  THE  CERTAIN  HOUR 

THE  CORDS  OF  VANITY 

FROM  THE  HIDDEN  WAY 
JTHE  RIVET  IN  GRANDFATHER'S  NECK 
ITHE  EAGLE'S  SHADOW 
!THE  CREAM  OF  THE  JEST 

Scholia: 

THE  LINEAGE  OF  LICHFIELD 

TABOO 

JOSEPH  HERGESHEIMER 

THE  JEWEL  MERCHANTS 


JURGEN  AND  THE  LAW 

(Edited  by  Guy  Holt) 


Gallantry 

Dizain  des  Fetes  Galantes 


By 
JAMES  BRANCH  CABELL 

WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 


"Half  in  masquerade,  playing  the  drawing-room  or 
garden  comedy  of  life,  these  persons  have  upon  them, 
not  less  than  the  landscape  among  the  accidents  of 
which  they  group  themselves  with  fittingness,  a 
certain  light  that  we  should  seek  for  in  vain  upon 
anything  real." 


ROBERT   M.    McBRIDE    G>   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 1924 


Revised  Edition, 
Copyright,  1922,  by 
JAMES  BRANCH  CABELL 


Second  Printing 
March,  1924 


Printed       in        the 
United     States     of     America 

,.0-7 


Published,    June,    1922 


TO 

JAMES  ROBINSON  BRANCH 

THIS   VOLUME,    SINCE   IT   TREATS    OF    GALLANTRY,   IS 

DEDICATED,    AS    BOTH    IN    LIFE    AND    DEATH 

AN    EXPONENT   OF   THE   WORD'S 

HIGHEST   MEANING 

"A  brutish  man  knoweth  not,  neither  doth  a  fool 
understand  this.  .  .  .  Shall  the  throne  of  iniquity 
have  fellowship  with  Thee,  which  frameth  mischief 
by  a  law?" 


Introduction 


THESE  paragraphs,  dignified  by  the  revised  edition 
of  Gallantry  and  spuriously  designated  An  Intro 
duction,  are  nothing  more  than  a  series  of  notes 
and  haphazard  discoveries  in  preparation  of  a  thesis. 
That  thesis,  if  it  is  ever  written,  will  bear  a  title  something 
academically  like  The  Psychogenesis  of  a  Poet;  or  Cabell 
the  Masquerader.  For  it  is  in  this  guise — sometimes  self- 
declared,  sometimes  self -concealed,  but  always  as  the  per 
sistent  visionary — that  the  author  of  some  of  the  finest 
prose  of  our  day  has  given  us  the  key  with  which  (to 
lapse  into  the  jargon  of  verse)  he  has  unlocked  his  heart. 
On  the  technical  side  alone,  it  is  easy  to  establish 
Cabell's  poetic  standing.  There  are,  first  of  all,  the  quan 
tity  of  original  rhymes  that  are  scattered  through  the 
dozen  volumes  which  Cabell  has  latterly  (and  signifi 
cantly)  classified  as  Biography.  Besides  these  interjec 
tions  which  do  duty  as  mottoes,  chapter-headings,  tail 
pieces,  dedications,  interludes  and  sometimes  relevant 
songs,  there  is  the  volume  of  seventy-five  "adaptations" 
in  verse,  From  the  Hidden  Way,  published  in  1916. 
Here  Cabell,  even  in  his  most  natural  role,  declines  to 
show  his  face  and  amuses  himself  with  a  new  set  of 
masks  labelled  Alessandro  de  Medici,  Antoine  Riczi, 
Nicolas  de  Caen,  Theodore  Passerat  and  other  fabulous 
minnesingers  whose  verses  were  created  only  in  the  mind 
of  Cabell.  It  has  pleased  him  to  confuse  others  besides 

vii 


viii  AN  INTRODUCTION 

the  erudite  reviewer  of  the  Boston  Transcript  by  quoting 
the  first  lines  of  the  non-existent  originals  in  Latin,  Ital 
ian,  Provengal — thus  making  his  skilful  ballades,  sestinas 
and  the  less  mediaeval  narratives  part  of  a  remarkably 
elaborate  and  altogether  successful  hoax. 

And,  as  this  masquerade  of  obscure  Parnassians  be 
trayed  its  creator,  Cabell — impelled  by  some  fantastic 
reticence — sought  for  more  subtle  makeshifts  to  hide  the 
poet.  The  unwritten  thesis,  plunging  abruptly  into  the 
realm  of  analytical  psychology,  will  detail  the  steps  Cabell 
has  taken,  as  a  result  of  early  associative  disappoint 
ments,  to  repress  or  at  least  to  disguise,  the  poet  in  him 
self — and  it  will  disclose  how  he  has  failed.  It  will  bur 
row  through  the  latest  of  his  works  and  exhume  his  half- 
buried  experiments  in  rhyme,  assonance  and  polyphony. 
This  part  of  the  paper  will  examine  Jurgen  and  call  at 
tention  to  the  distorted  sonnet  printed  as  a  prose  soliloquy 
on  page  97  of  that  exquisite  and  ironic  volume.  It  will 
pass  to  the  subsequent  Figures  of  Earth  and,  after  show 
ing  how  the  greater  gravity  of  this  volume  is  accompanied 
by  a  greater  profusion  of  poetry  per  sef  it  will  unravel 
the  scheme  of  Cabell's  fifteen  essays  in  what  might  be 
called  contrapuntal  prose.  It  will  unscramble  all  the 
rhymes  screened  in  Manuel's  monologue  beginning  on 
page  294,  quote  the  metrical  innovations  with  rhymed 
vowels  on  page  60,  tabulate  the  hexameters  that  leap 
from  the  solidly  set  paragraphs  and  rearrange  the  brilliant 
fooling  that  opens  the  chapter  "Magic  of  the  Image 
Makers."  This  last  is  in  itself  so  felicitous  a  composite 
of  verse  and  criticism — a  passage  incredibly  overlooked 
by  the  most  meticulous  of  Cabell's  glossarians — that  it 
deserves  a  paper  for  itself.  For  here,  set  down  prosai- 


AN  INTRODUCTION  ix 

cally  as  "the  unfinished  Rune  of  the  Blackbirds"  are  four 
distinct  parodies — including  two  insidious  burlesques  of 
Browning  and  Swinburne — on  a  theme  which  is  familiar 
to  us  to-day  in  les  mots  justes  of  Mother  Goose.  "It  is," 
explains  Freydis,  after  the  thaumaturgists  have  finished, 
"an  experimental  incantation  in  that  it  is  a  bit  of  unfin 
ished  magic  for  which  the  proper  words  have  not  yet 
been  found:  but  between  now  and  a  while  they  will  be 
stumbled  on,  and  then  this  rune  will  live  perpetually." 
And  thus  the  poet,  speaking  through  the  mouth-piece  of 
Freydis,  discourses  on  the  power  of  words  and,  in  one 
of  Cabell's  most  eloquent  chapters,  crystallizes  that  high 
mood,  presenting  the  case  for  poetry  as  it  has  been 
pleaded  by  few  of  her  most  fervid  advocates. 

Here  the  thesis  will  stop  quoting  and  argue  its  main 
contention  from  another  angle.  It  will  consider  the  au 
thor  in  a  larger  and  less  technical  sense:  disclosing  his 
characters,  his  settings,  his  plots,  even  the  entire  genea 
logical  plan  of  his  works,  to  be  the  design  of  a  poet  rather 
than  a  novelist.  The  persons  of  Cabell's  imagination 
move  to  no  haphazard  strains;  they  create  their  own 
music.  And,  like  a  set  of  modulated  motifs,  they  combine 
to  form  a  richer  and  more  sonorous  pattern.  With  its 
interrelation  of  figures  and  interweaving  of  themes,  the 
Cabellian  "Biography"  assumes  the  solidity  and  shapeli 
ness  of  a  fugue,  a  composition  in  which  all  the  voices 
speak  with  equal  precision  and  recurring  clarity. 

And  what,  the  diagnostician  may  inquire,  of  the  char 
acters  themselves?  They  are,  it  will  be  answered,  moti 
vated  by  pity  and  irony;  the  tolerant  humor,  the  sym 
pathetic  and  not  too  distant  regard  of  their  Olympian 
designer  agitate  them  so  sensitively  that  we  seldom  see 


AN  INTRODUCTION 


what  strings  are  twitched.  These  puppets  seem  to  act 
of  their  own  conviction — possibly  because  their  director 
is  careful  not  to  have  too  many  convictions  of  his  own. 
It  may  have  been  pointed  out  before  this  that  there  are 
no  undeviating  villains  in  his  masques  and,  as  many  an 
indignant  reviewer  has  expostulated,  few  untarnished 
heroes.  Cabell's,  it  will  be  perceived,  is  a  frankly  pagan 
poetry.  It  has  no  texts  with  which  to  discipline  beauty ; 
it  lacks  moral  fervor;  it  pretends  to  no  divinity  of  dog 
matism.  The  image-maker  is  willing  to  let  his  creatures 
ape  their  living  models  by  fluctuating  between  shifting 
conventions  and  contradictory  ideals ;  he  leaves  to  a  more 
positive  Author  the  dubious  pleasure  of  drawing  a  daily 
line  between  vice  and  virtue.  If  Cabell  pleads  at  all,  he 
pleads  with  us  not  to  repudiate  a  Villon  or  a  Marlowe 
while  we  are  reviling  the  imperfect  man  in  a  perfect 
poet.  "What  is  man,  that  his  welfare  be  considered  ?" 
questions  Cabell,  paraphrasing  Scripture,  "an  ape  who 
chatters  to  himself  of  kinship  with  the  archangels  while 
filthily  he  digs  for  groundnuts.  .  .  .  Yet  do  I  perceive 
that  this  same  man  is  a  maimed  god.  .  .  .  He  is  under 
penalty  condemned  to  compute  eternity  with  false  weights 
and  to  estimate  infinity  with  a  yardstick — and  he  very 
often  does  it." 

This,  the  thesis  will  contend,  is  the  only  possible  atti 
tude  to  the  mingled  apathy  and  abandon  of  existence — 
and  it  is,  in  fine,  the  poetic  attitude.  Romantic  it  is,  with 
out  question,  and  I  imagine  Cabell  would  be  the  last  to 
cavil  at  the  implication.  For,  mocked  by  a  contemptuous 
silence  gnawing  beneath  the  howling  energy  of  life,  what 
else  is  there  for  the  poet  but  the  search  for  some  miracle 
of  belief,  some  assurance  in  a  world  of  illimitable  per- 


AN  INTRODUCTION  xi 

plexities?  It  is  the  wish  to  attain  this  dream  which  is 
more  real  than  reality  that  guides  the  entire  Cabell  epos — 
"and  it  is  this  will  that  stirs  in  us  to  have  the  creatures 
of  earth  and  the  affairs  of  earth,  not  as  they  are,  but  as 
'they  ought  to  be.'  " 

Such  a  romantic  vision,  which  concludes  that  glowing 
testament,  Beyond  Life,  is  the  shining  thread  that  binds 
the  latest  of  Cabell's  novels  with  the  earliest  of  his  short 
stories.  It  is,  in  effect,  one  tale  he  is  telling,  a  tale  in 
which  Poictesme  and  the  more  local  Lichfield  are,  for 
all  their  topographical  dissimilarities,  the  same  place,  and 
all  his  people  interchangeable  symbols  of  the  changeless 
desires  of  men.  Whether  the  allegory  is  told  in  the 
terms  of  Gallantry  with  its  perfumed  lights,  its  deliberate 
artifice  and  its  technique  of  badinage,  or  presented  in 
the  more  high-flying  mood  of  Chivalry  with  its  ready 
passions  and  readier  rhetoric,  it  prefigures  the  subse 
quent  pageant  in  which  the  victories  might  so  easily  be 
mistaken  for  defeats.  In  this  procession,  amid  a  singu 
larly  ordered  riot  of  color,  the  figure  of  man  moves,  none 
too  confidently  but  with  stirring  fortitude,  to  an  un 
realized  end.  Here,  stumbling  through  the  mazes  of  a 
code,  in  the  habiliments  of  Ormskirk  or  de  Soyecourt, 
he  passes  from  the  adventures  of  the  mind  (Kennaston 
in  The  Cream  of  the  Jest,  Charteris  in  Beyond  Life) 
through  the  adventures  of  the  flesh  (Jurgen)  to  the 
darker  adventures  of  the  spirit  (Manuel  in  Figures  of 
Earth).  Even  this  Gallantry,  the  most  candidly  super 
ficial  of  Cabell's  works,  is  alive  with  a  vigor  of  imagina 
tion  and  irony.  It  is  not  without  significance  that  the 
motto  on  the  new  title-page  is:  "Half  in  masquerade, 
playing  the  drawing-room  or  garden  comedy  of  life,  these 


xii  AN  INTRODUCTION 

persons  have  upon  them,  not  less  than  the  landscape 
among  the  accidents  of  which  they  group  themselves,  a 
certain  light  that  we  should  seek  for  in  vain  upon  any 
thing  real." 

The  genealogically  inclined  will  be  happy  to  discover 
that  Gallantry,  for  all  its  revulsion  from  reality,  deals 
with  the  perpetuated  life  of  Manuel  in  a  strangely  al 
tered  milieu.  The  rest  of  us  will  be  quicker  to  compre 
hend  how  subtly  this  volume  takes  its  peculiar  place  in  its 
author's  record  of  struggling  dreams,  how,  beneath  a 
surface  covered  with  political  finery  and  sentimental 
bric-a-brac,  the  quest  goes  on,  stubbornly  and  often  stu 
pidly,  in  a  forgotten  world  made  suddenly  animate  and  as 
real  as  our  own. 

And  this,  the  thesis  will  conclude,  is  because  Cabell 
is  not  as  much  a  masquerader  as  he  imagines  himself 
to  be.  None  but  a  visionary  could  wear  so  constantly 
upon  his  sleeve  the  desire  "to  write  perfectly  of  beautiful 
happenings."  None  but  the  poet,  shaken  with  the 
strength  of  his  vision,  could  cry  to-day,  "It  is  only  by 
preserving  faith  in  human  dreams  that  we  may,  after  all, 
perhaps  some  day  make  them  come  true."  For  poetry, 
to  which  all  literature  aspires,  is  not  the  shadow  of  re- 
ality  but  the  image  of  perfection,  the  light  of  disembodied 
beauty  toward  which  creation  gropes.  And  that  poetic 
consciousness  is  the  key  to  the  complex  and  half -con 
cealed  art  of  James  Branch  Cabell. 

Louis  UNTERMEYER. 

New  York  City, 
April,  1922. 


Contents 

PAGE 

THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY xv 

THE  PROLOGUE xxi 

I     SIMON'S    HOUR 3 

II     LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS 39 

III  THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON 63 

IV  THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER 91 

V    ACTORS    ALL Ill 

VI    APRIL'S  MESSAGE 139 

VII    IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL 171 

VIII    HEART  OF  GOLD 247 

IX    THE  SCAPEGOATS 275 

X    THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE 303 

LOVE'S  ALUMNI  :  THE  AFTERPIECE  ...  333 

THE  EPILOGUE 341 


THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 
TO  MRS.  GRUNDY 

MADAM, — It  is  surely  fitting  that  a  book  which 
harks  back  to  the  manners  of  the  second  George 
should  have  its  dedication  and  its  patron.     And 
these  comedies  claim  naturally  your  protection,  since  it 
likewise  appears  a  custom  of  that  era  for  the  poet  to 
dedicate  his  book  to  his  most  influential  acquaintance  and 
the  one  least  likely  to  value  it. 

Indeed,  it  is  as  proper  that  the  plaudits  of  great  per 
sons  be  reserved  for  great  performances  as  it  is  undeni 
able  these 

tiny  pictures  of  that  tiny  time 
Aim  little  at  the  lofty  and  sublime. 

Yet  cognoscenti  still  esteem  it  an  error  in  the  accom 
plished  Shakespeare  that  he  introduced  a  game  of  bil 
liards  into  his  portrayal  of  Queen  Cleopatra's  court ;  and 
the  impropriety  had  been  equal  had  I  linked  the  extreme 
of  any  passion  with  an  age  and  circle  wherein  abandon 
ment  to  the  emotions  was  adjudged  bucolic.  Nay,  Ma 
dam,  the  Eumenides  were  very  terrifying  at  Delphi,  no 
doubt,  but  deck  them  with  paint,  patch,  and  panniers, 
send  them  howling  among  the  bew  monde  on  the  Pan 
tiles,  and  they  are  only  figures  of  fun;  nor  may,  in  rea 
son,  the  high  woes  of  a  second  Lear,  or  of  a  new 
Prometheus,  be  adequately  lighted  by  the  flambeaux  of 
Louis  Quinze. 

XV 


xvi  THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 

Conceive,  then,  the  overture  begun,  and  fear  not,  if 
the  action  of  the  play  demand  a  lion,  but  that  he  shall 
be  a  beast  of  Peter  Quince's  picking.  The  ladies  shall 
not  be  frighted,  for  our  chief  comedians  will  enact  mod 
ish  people  of  a  time  when  gallantry  prevailed. 

Now  the  essence  of  gallantry,  I  take  it,  was  to  accept 
the  pleasures  of  life  leisurely  and  its  inconveniences  with 
a  shrug.  As  requisites,  a  gallant  person  will,  of  course, 
be  "amorous,  but  not  too  constant,  have  a  pleasant  voice, 
and  possess  a  talent  for  love-letters."  He  will  always 
bear  in  mind  that  in  love-affairs  success  is  less  the 
Ultima  Thule  of  desire  than  its  coup  de  grace,  and  he 
will  be  careful  never  to  admit  the  fact,  especially  to  him 
self.  He  will  value  ceremony,  but  rather  for  its  comeli 
ness  than  for  its  utility,  as  one  esteeming  the  lily,  say,  to 
be  a  more  applaudable  bulb  than  the  onion.  He  will 
prink;  and  he  will  be  at  his  best  after  sunset.  He  will 
dare  to  acknowledge  the  shapeliness  of  a  thief's  leg,  to 
contend  that  the  commission  of  murder  does  not  neces 
sarily  impair  the  agreeableness  of  the  assassin's  conver 
sation  ;  and  to  insist  that  at  bottom  God  is  kindlier  than 
the  genteel  would  regard  as  rational.  He  will,  in  fine, 
sin  on  sufficient  provocation,  and  repent  within  the  mo 
ment,  quite  sincerely,  and  be  not  unconscionably  surprised 
when  he  repeats  the  progression :  and  he  will  consider  the 
world  with  a  smile  of  toleration,  and  his  own  doings  with 
a  smile  of  honest  amusement,  and  Heaven  with  a  smile 
that  is  not  distrustful. 

This  particular  attitude  toward  life  may  have  its  mer 
its,  but  it  is  not  conducive  to  meticulous  morality ;  there 
fore,  in  advance,  I  warn  you  that  my  Dramatis  Persona 
will  in  their  display  of  the  cardinal  virtues  evince  a  cer- 


THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY  xvii 

tain  parsimony.  Theirs  were,  in  effect,  not  virtuous 
days.  And  the  great  man  who  knew  these  times  au 
fond,  and  loved  them,  and  wrote  of  them  as  no  other  man 
may  ever  hope  to  do,  has  said  of  these  same  times,  with 
perfect  truth: 

"Fiddles  sing  all  through  them;  wax-lights,  fine 
dresses,  fine  jokes,  fine  plate,  fine  equipages,  glitter  and 
sparkLe :  never  was  there  such  a  brilliant,  jigging,  smirk 
ing  Vanity  Fair.  But  wandering  through  that  city  of  the 
dead,  that  dreadfully  selfish  time,  through  those  godless 
intrigues  and  feasts,  through  those  crowds,  pushing,  and 
eager,  and  struggling, — rouged,  and  lying,  and  fawn 
ing, — I  have  wanted  some  one  to  be  friends  with.  I 
have  said,  Show  me  some  good  person  about  that  Court; 
find  me,  among  those  selfish  courtiers,  those  dissolute 
gay  people,  some  one  being  that  I  can  love  and  regard." 
And  Thackeray  confesses  that,  for  all  his  research,  he 
could  not  find  anybody  living  irreproachably,  at  this  espe 
cial  period.  .  .  . 

Where  a  giant  fails  one  may  in  reason  hesitate  to  es 
say.  I  present,  then,  people  who,  as  people  normally  do, 
accepted  their  times  and  made  the  best  of  them,  since  the 
most  estimable  needs  conform  a  little  to  the  custom  of 
his  day,  whether  it  be  Caractacus  painting  himself  sky- 
blue  or  Galileo  on  his  knees  at  Santa  Maria.  And  ac 
cordingly,  many  of  my  comedians  will  lie  when  it  seems 
advisable,  and  will  not  haggle  over  a  misdemeanor  when 
there  is  anything  to  be  gained  by  it;  at  times  their  vir 
tues  will  get  them  what  they  want,  and  at  times  their 
vices,  and  at  other  times  they  will  be  neither  punished 
nor  rewarded;  in  fine,  Madam,  they  will  be  just  human 
beings  stumbling  through  illogical  lives  with  precisely 


xviii  THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 

that  lack  of  common-sense  which  so  pre-eminently  dis 
tinguishes  all  our  neighbors  from  ourselves. 

For  the  life  that  moved  in  old  Manuel  of  Poictesme 
finds  hereinafter  in  his  descendants,  in  these  later  Allon- 
bys  and  Bulmers  and  Heleighs  and  Floyers,  a  new  milieu 
to  conform  and  curb  that  life  in  externes  rather  than  in 
essentials.  What  this  life  made  of  chivalrous  conditions 
has  elsewhere  been  recorded:  with  its  renewal  in  gallant 
circumstances,  the  stage  is  differently  furnished  and 
lighted,  the  costumes  are  dissimilar;  but  the  comedy,  I 
think,  works  toward  the  same  denouement,  and  certainly 
the  protagonist  remains  unchanged.  My  protagonist  is 
still  the  life  of  Manuel,  as  this  life  was  perpetuated  in 
his  descendants;  and  my  endeavor  is  (still)  to  show  you 
what  this  life  made  (and  omitted  to  make)  of  its  tenancy 
of  earth.  Tis  a  drama  enactable  in  any  setting. 

Yet  the  comedy  of  gallantry  has  its  conventions. 
There  must  be  quite  invaluable  papers  to  be  stolen  and 
juggled  with;  an  involuntary  marriage  either  threatened 
or  consummated;  elopements,  highwaymen,  and  des 
patch-boxes  ;  and  a  continual  indulgence  in  soliloquy  and 
eavesdropping.  Everybody  must  pretend  to  be  some 
body  else,  and  young  girls,  in  particular,  must  go  dis 
guised  as  boys,  amid  much  cut-and-thrust  work,  both 
ferric  and  verbal.  For  upon  the  whole,  the  comedy  of 
gallantry  tends  to  unfold  itself  in  dialogue,  and  yet  more 
dialogue,  with  just  the  notice  of  a  change  of  scene  or  a 
brief  stage  direction  inserted  here  and  there.  All  these 
conventions,  Madam,  I  observe. 

A  word  more:  the  progress  of  an  author  who  alter 
nates,  in  turn,  between  fact  and  his  private  fancies  (like 
unequal  crutches)  cannot  in  reason  be  undisfigured  by 


THE  EPISTLE  DEDICATORY 


false  steps.  Therefore  it  is  judicious  to  confess,  Ma 
dam,  that  more  than  once  I  have  pieced  the  opulence  of 
my  subject  with  the  poverty  of  my  inventions.  Indis 
putably,  to  thrust  words  into  a  dead  man's  mouth  is  in 
the  ultimate  as  unpardonable  as  the  axiomatic  offence 
of  stealing  the  pennies  from  his  eyes ;  yet  if  I  have  some 
times  erred  in  my  surmise  at  what  Ormskirk  or  de 
Puysange  or  Louis  de  Soyecourt  really  said  at  certain 
moments  of  their  lives,  the  misstep  was  due,  Madam, 
less  to  malevolence  than  to  inability  to  replevin  their  su 
perior  utterance;  and  the  accomplished  shade  of  Garen- 
don,  at  least,  I  have  not  travestied,  unless  it  were 
through  some  too  prudent  item1  of  excision. 

Remains   but   to   subscribe   myself — in   the    approved 
formula  of  dedicators — as, 

MADAM, 

Your  ladyship's  most  humble  and  most  obedient 

servant, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


,. 

THE  PROLOGUE 


SPOKEN  BY  LADY  ALLONBY,  WHO  ENTERS  IN  A  FLURRY 

4  *• 

The  author  bade  me  come —    Lud,  I  protest  I — 
He  bade  me  come — and  I  forget  the  rest. 
But  'tis  no  matter ;  he's  an  arrant  fool 
That  ever  bade  a  woman  speak  by  rule. 

Besides,  his  Prologue  was,  at  best,  dull  stuff, 
And  of  dull  writing  we  have,  sure,  enough. 
A  'book  will  do  when  you've  a  vacant  minute, 
But,  la!  who  cares  what  is,  and  isn't,  in  it? 

And  since  I'm  but  the  Prologue  of  a  book, 
What  I've  omitted  all  will  overlook, 
And  owe  me  for  it,  too,  some  gratitude, 
Seeing  in  reason  it  cannot  be  good 
Whose  author  has  as  much  but  now  confessed, — 
For,  Who'd  excel  when  few  can  make  a  test 
Betwixt  indifferent  writing  and  the  best? 
He  said  but  now. 

And  I : — La,  why  excel, 
When  mediocrity  does  quite  as  well? 
'Tis  women  buy  the  books, — and  read  'em,  say, 
What  time  a  person  nods,  en  negligee, 
And  in  default  of  gossip,  cards,  or  dance, 
Resolves  t'  incite  a  nap  with  some  romance. 

The  fool  replied  in  verse, — I  think  he  said 
'Twas  verses  the  ingenious  Dryden  made, 
And  trust  'twill  save  me  from  entire  disgrace 
To  cite  'em  in  his  foolish  Prologue's  place. 
xxi 


xxii  THE  PROLOGUE 


Yet,  scattered  here  and  there,  I  some  behold, 
Who  can  discern  the  tinsel  from  the  gold: 
To  these  he  writes;  and  if  by  them  allowed, 
'Tis  their  prerogative  to  rule  the  crowd, 
For  he  more  fears,  like  a  presuming  man, 
Their  votes  who  cannot  judge,  than  theirs  who  can. 


SIMON'S  HOUR 
As  Played  at  Stornoway  Crag,  March  25,  1750 

"You're  a  woman — one  to  whom  Heaven  gave  beauty, 
when  it  grafted  roses  on  a  briar.  You  are  the  reflection 
of  Heaven  in  a  pond,  and  he  that  leaps  at  you  is  sunk. 
You  were  all  white,  a  sheet  of  lovely  spotless  paper, 
when  you  first  were  born;  but  you  are  to  be  scrawled 
and  blotted  by  every  goose's  quill" 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

LORD  ROKESLE,  a   loose-living,  impoverished  nobleman, 

and  loves  Lady  Allonby. 
SIMON  ORTS,  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna,  a  debauched  fellow, 

and  Rokesle's  creature. 
PUNSHON,  servant  to  Rokesle. 

LADY  ALLONBY,  a  pleasure-loving,  luxurious  woman,  a 
widow,  and  rich. 

SCENE 
The  Mancini  Chamber  at  Stornoway  Crag,  on  Usk. 


V 


SIMON'S  HOUR 

PROEM:— The  Age  and  a  Product  of  It 

WE  begin  at  a  time  when  George  the  Second  was 
permitting  Ormskirk  and  the  Pelhams  to 
govern  England,  and  the  Jacobites  had  not  yet 
ceased  to  hope  for  another  Stuart  Restoration,  and  Mr. 
Washington  was  a  promising  young  surveyor  in  the  most 
loyal  colony  of  Virginia;  when  abroad  the  Marquise  de 
Pompadour  ruled  France  and  all  its  appurtenances,  and 
the  King  of  Prussia  and  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa  had, 
between  them,  set  entire  Europe  by  the  ears ;  when  at 
home  the  ladies,  if  rumor  may  be  credited,  were  less  un 
approachable  than  their  hoop-petticoats  caused  them  to 
appear,1  and  gentlemen  wore  swords,  and  some  of  the 
more  reckless  bloods  were  daringly  beginning  to  discard 
the  Ramillie-tie  and  the  pigtail  for  their  own  hair ;  when 
politeness  was  obligatory,  and  morality  a  matter  of  taste, 
and  when  well-bred  people  went  about  the  day's  *work 
with  an  ample  leisure  and  very  few  scruples.  In  fine, 
we  begin  toward  the  end  of  March,  in  the  year  1750, 
when  Lady  Allonby  and  her  brother,  Mr.  Henry  Heleigh, 
of  Trevor's  Folly,  were  the  guests  of  Lord  Rokesle,  at 
Stornoway  Crtfg,  on  Usk. 

As  any  person  of  ton  could  have  informed  you,  Anas- 
tasia  Allonby  was  the  widow  (by  his  second  marriage) 

1  "Oft  have  we  known  that  sevenfold  fence  to  fail, 

Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  armed  with  ribs  of  whale." 
3 


GALLANTRY 


of  Lord  Stephen  Allonby,  the  Marquis  of  Falmouth's 
younger  brother ;  and  it  was  conceded  by  the  most  sedate 
that  Lord  Stephen's  widow,  in  consideration  of  her  liberal 
jointure,  possessed  inordinate  comeliness. 

She  was  tall  for  a  woman.  Her  hair,  to-night  unpow- 
dered,  had  the  color  of  amber  and  something,  too,  of  its 
glow;  her  eyes,  though  not  profound,  were  large  and  in 
hue  varied,  as  the  light  fell  or  her  emotions  shifted, 
through  a  wide  gamut  of  blue  shades.  But  it  was  her 
mouth  you  remembered :  the  fulness  and  brevity  of  it,  the 
deep  indentation  of  its  upper  lip,  the  curves  of  it  and  its 
vivid  crimson — these  roused  you  to  wildish  speculation  as 
to  its  probable  softness  when  Lady  Allonby  and  Fate 
were  beyond  ordinary  lenient.  Pink  was  the  color  most 
favorable  to  her  complexion,  and  this  she  wore  to-night; 
the  gown  was  voluminous,  with  a  profusion  of  lace,  and 
afforded  everybody  an  ample  opportunity  to  appraise  her 
neck  and  bosom.  Lady  Allonby  had  no  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  either,  and  the-  last  mode  in  these  matters  was 
not  prudish. 

To  such  a  person,  enters  Simon  Orts,  chaplain  in  or 
dinary  to  Lord  Rokesle,  and  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna,  one 
of  Lord  Rokesle's  livings. 


"Now  of  a  truth,"  said  Simon  Orts,  "that  is  curious — 
undeniably  that  is  curious." 

He  stayed  at  the  door  for  a  moment  staring  back  into 
the  ill-lit  corridor.  Presently  he  shut  the  door,  and  came 
forward  toward  the  fireplace. 

Lady'  Allonby,  half-hidden  in  the  depths  of  the  big 


SIMON'S  HOUR 


chair  beside  the  chimney-piece,  a  book  in  her  lap,  looked 
up  inquiringly.  "What  is  curious,  Mr.  Orts'?" 

The  clergyman  stood  upon  the  hearth,  warming  his 
hands,  and  diffusing  an  odor  of  tobacco  and  stale  alcohol. 
"Faith,  that  damned  rascal —  I  beg  your  pardon,  Anas- 
tasia;  our  life  upon  Usk  is  not  conducive  to  a  mincing 
nicety  of  speech.  That  rascal  Punshon  made  some  diffi 
culty  over  admitting  me ;  you  might  have  taken  him  for 
a  sentinel,  with  Stornoway  in  a  state  of  siege.  He  ruffled 
me, — and  I  don't  like  it,"  Simon  Orts  said,  reflectively, 
looking  down  upon  her.  "No,  I  don't  like  it.  Where's 
your  brother?"  he  demanded  on  a  sudden. 

"Harry  and  Lord  Rokesle  are  at  cards,  I  believe.  And 
Mrs.  Morfit  has  retired  to  her  apartments  with  one  of  her 
usual  headaches,  so  that  I  have  been  alone  these  two 
hours.  You  visit  Stornoway  somewhat  late,  Mr.  Orts," 
Anastasia  Allonby  added,  without  any  particular  conceal 
ment  of  the  fact  that  she  considered  his  doing  so  a 
nuisance. 

He  jerked  his  thumb  ceilingward.  "The  cloth  is  at 
any  rascal's  beck  and  call.  Old  Holies,  my  Lord's  man, 
is  dying  up  yonder,  and  the  whim  seized  him  to  have  a 
clergyman  in.  God  knows  why,  for  it  appears  to  me  that 
one  knave  might  very  easily  make  his  way  to  hell  without 
having  another  knave  to  help  him.  And  Holies? — eh, 
well,  from  what  I  myself  know  of  him,  the  rogue  is  triply 
damned."  His  mouth  puckered  as  he  set  about  unbutton 
ing  his  long,  rain-spattered  cloak,  which,  with  his  big  hat, 
he  flung  aside  upon  a  table.  "Gad!"  said  Simon  Orts, 
"we  are  most  of  us  damned  on  Usk;  and  that  is  why  I 
don't  like  it — "  He  struck  his  hand  against  his  thigh. 
"I  don't  like  it,  Anastasia." 


GALLANTRY 


"You  must  pardon  me,"  she  languidly  retorted,  "but  I 
was  never  good  at  riddles." 

He  turned  and  glanced  about  the  hall,  debating.  Lady 
Allonby  meanwhile  regarded  him,  as  she  might  have 
looked  at  a  frog  or  a  hurtless  snake.  A  small,  slim, 
anxious  man,  she  found  him;  always  fidgeting,  always 
placating  some  one,  but  never  without  a  covert  sneer. 
The  fellow  was  venomous;  his  eyes  only  were  honest, 
for  even  while  his  lips  were  about  their  wheedling,  these 
eyes  flashed  malice  at  you ;  and  their  shifting  was  so  un- 
remittent  that  afterward  you  recalled  them  as  an  ab 
solute  shining  which  had  not  any  color,  On  Usk  and 
thereabouts  they  said  it  was  the  glare  from  within  of  his 
damned  soul,  already  at  white  heat;  but  they  were  a 
plain-spoken  lot  on  Usk.  To-night  Simon  Orts  was  all 
in  black;  and  his  hair,  too,  and  his  gross  eyebrows  were 
black,  and  well-nigh  to  the  cheek-bones  of  his  clean 
shaven  countenance  the  thick  beard  showed  black  through 
the  skin. 

Now  he  kept  silence  for  a  lengthy  interval,  his  arms 
crossed  on  his  breast,  gnawing  meanwhile  at  the  finger 
nails  of  his  left  hand  in  an  unattractive  fashion  he  had  of 
meditating.  When  words  came  it  was  in  a  torrent. 

"I  will  read  you  my  riddle,  then.  You  are  a  widow, 
rich;  as  women  go,  you  are  not  so  unpleasant  to  look  at 
as  most  of  'em.  If  it  became  a  clergyman  to  dwell  upon 
such  matters,  I  would  say  that  your  fleshly  habitation  is 
too  fine  for  its  tenant,  since  I  know  you  to  be  a  good- 
for-nothing  jilt.  However,  you  are  God's  handiwork, 
and  doubtless  He  had  His  reasons  for  constructing  you. 
My  Lord  is  poor ;  last  summer  at  Tunbridge  you  declined 
to  marry  him.  I  am  in  his  confidence,  you  observe. 


SIMON'S  HOUR 


He  took  your  decision  in  silence — 'ware  Rokesle  when 
he  is  quiet!  Eh,  I  know  the  man, — 'tisn't  for  nothing 
that  these  ten  years  past  I  have  studied  his  whims, 
pampered  his  vanity,  lied  to  him,  toadied  him !  You  ad 
mire  my  candor? — faith,  yes,  I  am  very  candid.  I  am 
Rokesle's  hanger-on ;  he  took  me  out  of  the  gutter,  and  in 
my  fashion  I  am  grateful.  And  you? — Anastasia,  had 
you  treated  me  more  equitably  fifteen  years  ago,  I  would 
have  gone  to  the  stake  for  you,  singing ;  now  I  don't  value 
you  the  flip  of  a  farthing.  But,  for  old  time's  sake,  I 
warn  you.  You  and  your  brother  are  Rokesle's  guests — 
on  Usk!  Harry  Heleigh1  can  handle  a  sword,  I  grant 
you, — but  you  are  on  Usk !  And  Mrs.  Morfit  is  here  to 
play  propriety — propriety  on  Usk,  God  save  the  mark! 
And  besides,  Rokesle  can  twist  his  sister  about  his  little 
finger,  as  the  phrase  runs.  And  I  find  sentinels  at  the 
door!  I  don't  like  it,  Anastasia.  In  his  way  Rokesle 
loves  you;  more  than  that,  you  are  an  ideal  match  to 
retrieve  his  battered  fortunes;  and  the  name  of  my 
worthy  patron,  I  regret  to  say,  is  not  likely  ever  to  em 
bellish  the  Calendar  of  Saints." 

Simon  Orts  paused  with  a  short  laugh.  The  woman 
had  risen  to  her  feet,  her  eyes  widening  and  a  thought 
troubled,  though  her  lips  smiled  contemptuously. 

"La,  I  should  have  comprehended  that  this  late  in  the 
evening  you  would  be  in  no  condition  to  converse  with 
ladies.  Believe  me,  though,  Mr.  Orts,  I  would  be  glad 
to  credit  your  warning  to  officious  friendliness,  were  it 

1  Henry  Heleigh,  thirteenth  Earl  of  Brudenel,  who  succeeded 
his  cousin  the  twelfth  Earl  in  1759,  and  lived  to  a  great  age. 
Bavois,  writing  in  1797,  calls  him  "a  very  fine,  strong  old  gentle 
man." 


GALLANTRY 


not  that  the  cwdor  about  your  person  compels  me  to  attri 
bute  it  to  gin." 

"Oh,  I  have  been  drinking,"  he  conceded ;  "I  have  been 
drinking  with  a  most  commendable  perseverance  for  these 
fifteen  years.  But  at  present  I  am  far  from  drunk." 
Simon  Orts  took  a  turn  about  the  hall;  in  an  instant  he 
faced  her  with  an  odd,  almost  tender  smile.  "You 
adorable,  empty-headed,  pink-and-white  fool,"  said  Simon 
Orts,  "what  madness  induced  you  to  come  to  Usk  ?  You 
know  that  Rokesle  wants  you;  you  know  that  you  don't 
mean  to  marry  him.  Then  why  come  to  Usk?  Do  you 
know  who  is  king  in  this  sea- washed  scrap  of  earth? — 
Rokesle.  German  George  reigns  yonder  in  England,  but 
here,  in  the  Isle  of  Usk,  Vincent  Floyer  is  king.  And  it 
is  not  precisely  a  convent  that  he  directs.  The  men  of 
Usk,  I  gather,  after  ten  years'  experience  in  the  adminis 
tering  of  spiritual  consolation  hereabouts" — and  his  teeth 
made  their  appearance  in  honor  of  the  jest, — "are  part 
fisherman,  part  smuggler,  part  pirate,  and  part  devil. 
Since  the  last  ingredient  predominates,  they  have  no  very 
unreasonable  apprehension  of  hell,  and  would  cheerfully 
invade  it  if  Rokesle  bade  'em  do  so.  As  I  have  pointed 
out,  my  worthy  patron  is  subject  to  the  frailties  of  the 
flesh.  Oh,  I  am  candid,  for  if  you  report  me  to  his  Lord 
ship  I  shall  lie  out  of  it.  I  have  had  practice  enough  to 
do  it  handsomely.  But  Rokesle — do  you  not  know  what 
Rokesle  is— ?" 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  would  have  gone  on,  but 
Lady  Allonby  had  interrupted,  her  cheeks  flaming.  "Yes, 
yes,"  she  cried;  "I  know  him  to  be  a  worthy  gentle 
man.  'Tis  true  I  could  not  find  it  in  my  heart  to  marry 
him,  yet  I  am  proud  to  rank  Lord  Rokesle  among  my 


SIMON'S  HOUR 


friends."  She  waved  her  hand  toward  the  chimney- 
piece,  where  hung — and  hangs  to-day, — the  sword  of 
Aluric  Floyer,  the  founder  of  the  house  of  Rokesle.  "Do 
you  see  that  old  sword,  Mr.  Orts  ?  The  man  who  wielded 
it  long  ago  was  a  gallant  gentleman  and  a  stalwart  cap 
tain.  And  my  Lord,  as  he  told  me  but  on  Thursday 
afternoon,  hung  it  there  that  he  might  always  have  in 
mind  the  fact  that  he  bore  the  name  of  this  man,  and 
must  bear  it  meritoriously.  My  Lord  is  a  gentleman. 
La,  believe  me,  if  you,  too,  were  a  gentleman,  Mr.  Orts, 
you  would  understand!  But  a  gentleman  is  not  a  tale 
bearer;  a  gentleman  does  not  defame  any  person  behind 
his  back,  far  less  the  person  to  whom  he  owes  his  daily 
bread." 

"So  he  has  been  gulling  you?"  said  Simon  Orts;  then 
he  added  quite  inconsequently :  "I  had  not  thought  any 
thing  you  could  say  would  hurt  me.  I  discover  I  was 
wrong.  Perhaps  I  am  not  a  gentleman.  Faith,  no ;  I  am 
only  a  shabby  drunkard,  a  disgrace  to  my  cloth,  am  I  not, 
Anastasia?  Accordingly,  I  fail  to  perceive  what  old 
Aluric  Floyer  has  to  do  with  the  matter  in  hand.  He 
was  reasonably  virtuous,  I  suppose ;  putting  aside  a  disas 
trous  appetite  for  fruit,  so  was  Adam :  but,  viewing  their 
descendants,  I  ruefully  admit  that  in  each  case  the  strain 
has  deteriorated." 

There  was  a  brief  silence;  then  Lady  Allonby  ob 
served  :  "Perhaps  I  was  discourteous.  I  ask  your  for 
giveness,  Mr.  Orts.  And  now,  if  you  will  pardon  the 
suggestion,  I  think  you  had  better  go  to  your  dying 
parishioner." 

But  she  had  touched  the  man  to  the  quick.  "I  am  a 
drunkard  ;  who  made  me  so?  Who  was  it  used  to  cuddle 


10  GALLANTRY 


me  with  so  many  soft  words  and  kisses — yes,  kisses,  my 
Lady! — till  a  wealthier  man  came  a-wooing,  and  then 
flung  me  aside  like  an  old  shoe?" 

This  drenched  her  cheeks  with  crimson.  "I  think  we 
had  better  not  refer  to  that  boy-and-girl  affair.  You 
cannot  blame  me  for  your  debauched  manner  of  living. 
I  found  before  it  was  too  late  that  I  did  not  love  you. 
I  was  only  a  girl,  and  'twas  natural  that  at  first  I  should 
be  mistaken  in  my  fancies." 

The  Vicar  had  caught  her  by  each  wrist.  "You  don't 
understand,  of  course.  You  never  understood,  for  you 
have  no  more  heart  than  one  of  those  pink-and-white 
bisque  figures  that  you  resemble.  'You  don't  love  me, 
and  therefore  I  will  go  to  the  devil'  may  not  be  an  all- 
rational  deduction,  but  'tis  very  human  logic.  You  don't 
understand  that,  do  you,  Anastasia?  You  don't  under 
stand  how  when  one  is  acutely  miserable  one  remembers 
that  at  the  bottom  of  a  wineglass — or  even  at  the  bottom 
of  a  tumbler  of  gin, — one  may  come  upon  happiness,  or 
at  least  upon  acquiescence  to  whatever  the  niggling  gods 
may  send.  You  don't  understand  how  one  remembers, 
when  the  desired  woman  is  lost,  that  there  are  other 
women  whose  lips  are  equally  red  and  whose  hearts  are 
tenderer  and — yes,  whose  virtue  is  less  exigent.  No; 
women  never  understand  these  things :  and  in  any  event, 
you  would  not  understand,  because  you  are  only  an  ador 
able  pink-and-white  fool." 

"Oh,  oh !"  she  cried,  struggling.  "How  dare  you  ?  You 
insult  me,  you  coward !" 

"Well,  you  can  always  comfort  yourself  with  the  re 
flection  that  it  scarcely  matters  what  a  sot  like  me  may 
elect  to  say.  And,  since  you  understand  me  now  no  more 


SIMON'S  HOUR  11 


than  formerly,  Anastasia,  I  tell  you  that  the  lover  turned 
adrift  may  well  profit  by  the  example  of  his  predecessors. 
Other  lovers  have  been  left  forsaken,  both  in  trousers  and 
in  ripped  petticoats ;  and  I  have  heard  that  when  Chryseis 
was  reft  away  from  Agamemnon,  the  anax  andron  made 
himself  tolerably  comfortable  with  Briseis;  and  that, 
when  Theseus  sneaked  off  in  the  night,  Ariadne,  after 
having  wept  for  a  decent  period,  managed  in  the  ultimate 
to  console  herself  with  Theban  Bacchus, — which  I  sup 
pose  to  be  a  courteous  method  of  stating  that  the  daughter 
of  Minos  took  to  drink.  So  the  forsaken  lover  has  his 
choice  of  consolation — in  wine  or  in  that  dearer  danger, 
woman.  I  have  tried  both,  Anastasia.  And  I  tell 
you—" 

He  dropped  her  hands  as  though  they  had  been  embers. 
Lord  Rokesle  had  come  quietly  into  the  hall. 

"Why,  what's  this  ?"  Lord  Rokesle  demanded.  "Simon, 
you  aren't  making  love  to  Lady  Allonby,  I  hope?  Fie, 
man !  remember  your  cloth." 

Simon  Orts  wheeled — a  different  being,  servile  and 
cringing.  "Your  Lordship  is  pleased  to  be  pleasant. 
Indeed,  though,  I  fear  that  your  ears  must  burn,  sir,  for 
I  was  but  now  expatiating  upon  the  manifold  kindnesses 
your  Lordship  has  been  so  generous  as  to  confer  upon 
your  unworthy  friend.  I  was  admiring  Lady  Allonby's 
ruffle,  sir, — Valenciennes,  I  take  it,  and  very  choice." 

Lord  Rokesle  laughed.  "So  I  am  to  thank  you  for 
blowing  my  trumpet,  am  I  ?"  said  Lord  Rokesle.  "Well, 
you  are  not  a  bad  fellow,  Simon,  so  long  as  you  are  sober. 
And  now  be  off  with  you  to  Holies — the  rascal  is  dying, 
they  tell  me.  My  luck,  Simon!  He  made  up  a  cravat 
better  than  any  one  in  the  kingdom." 


12  GALLANTRY 


"The  ways  of  Providence  are  inscrutable,"  Simon  Orts 
considered;  "and  if  Providence  has  in  verity  elected  to 
chasten  your  Lordship,  doubtless  it  shall  be,  as  anciently 
in  the  case  of  Job  the  Patriarch,  repaid  by  a  recompense, 
by  a  thousandfold  recompense."  And  after  a  meaning 
glance  toward  Lady  Allonby, — a  glance  that  said :  "I, 
too,  have  a  tongue," — he  was  mounting  the  stairway  to 
the  upper  corridor  when  Lord  Rokesle  called  to  him. 

"By  my  conscience!  I  forgot,"  said  Lord  Rokesle; 
"don't  leave  Stornoway  without  seeing  me  again.  I  shall 
want  you  by  and  by." 


II 


Lord  Rokesle  sat  down  upon  the  long,  high-backed 
bench,  beside  the  fire,  and  facing  Lady  Allonby 's  arm 
chair. 

Neither  he  nor  Lady  Allonby  spoke  for  a  while. 

In  a  sombre  way  Lord  Rokesle  was  a  handsome  man, 
and  to-night,  in  brown  and  gold,  very  stately.  His  bear 
ing  savored  faintly  of  the  hidalgo;  indeed,  his  mother  was 
a  foreign  woman,  cast  ashore  on  Usk,  from  a  wrecked 
Spanish  vessel,  and  incontinently  married  by  the  despot 
of  the  island.  For  her,  Death  had  delayed  his  advent 
unmercifully;  but  her  reason  survived  the  marriage  by 
two  years  only,  and  there  were  those  familiar  with  the 
late  Lord  Rpkesle's  1  peculiarities  who  considered  that  in 
this,  at  least,  the  crazed  lady  was  fortunate.  Among 
these  gossips  it  was  also  esteemed  a  matter  deserving 

1Born  1685,  and  accidentally  killed  by  Sir  Piers  Sabiston  in 
1738;  an  accurate  account  of  this  notorious  duellist,  profligate, 
charlatan  and  playwright  is  given  in  Ireson's  Letters. 


SIMON'S  HOUR  13 


comment  that  in  the  shipwrecks  not  infrequent  about  Usk 
the  women  sometimes  survived,  but  the  men  never. 

Now  Lord  Rokesle  regarded  Lady  Allonby,  the  while 
that  she  displayed  conspicuous  interest  in  the  play  of  the 
flames.  But  by  and  by,  "O  vulgarity!"  said  Lady 
Allonby.  'Tray  endeavor  to  look  a  little  more  cheerful. 
Positively,  you  are  glaring  at  me  like  one  of  those  dis 
agreeable  beggars  one  so  often  sees  staring  at  bakery 
windows/' 

He  smiled.  "Do  you  remember  what  the  Frenchman 
wrote — et  pain  ne  voyent  qu'aux  fenetres?  There  is  not 
an  enormous  difference  between  me  and  the  tattered  ras 
cal  of  Chepe,  for  we  both  stare  longingly  at  what  we  most 
desire.  And  were  I  minded  to  hunt  the  simile  to  the  foot 
of  the  letter,  I  would  liken  your  coquetry  to  the  inter 
vening  window-pane, — not  easily  broken  through,  but 
very,  very  transparent,  Anastasia." 

"You  are  not  overwhelmingly  polite,"  she  said,  re 
flectively;  "but,  then,  I  suppose,  living  in  the  country  is 
sure  to  damage  a  man's  manners.  Still,  my  dear  Orson, 
you  smack  too  much  of  the  forest." 

"Anastasia,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  bending  toward  her, 
"will  you  always  be  thus  cruel  ?  Do  you  not  understand 
that  in  this  world  you  are  the  only  thing  I  care  for  ?  You 
think  me  a  boor ;  perhaps  I  am, — and  yet  it  rests  with  you, 
my  Lady,  to  make  me  what  you  will.  For  I  love  you. 
Anastasia — " 

"Why,  how  delightful  of  you!"  said  she,  languidly. 

"It  is  not  a  matter  for  jesting.  I  tell  you  that  I  love 
you."  My  Lord's  color  was  rising. 

But  Lady  Allonby  yawned.  "Your  honor's  most  de 
voted,"  she  declared  herself ;  "still,  you  need  not  boast  of 


14  GALLANTRY 


your  affection  as  if  falling  in  love  with  me  were  an  un 
commonly  difficult  achievement.  That,  too,  is  scarcely 
polite." 

"For  the  tenth  time  I  ask  you  will  you  marry  me?" 
said  Lord  Rokesle. 

"Is't  only  the  tenth  time?  Dear  me,  it  seems  like  the 
thousandth.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  think  of  it.  Heavens, 
my  Lord,  how  can  you  expect  me  to  marry  a  man  who 
glares  at  me  like  that?  Positively  you  look  as  ferocious 
as  the  blackamoor  in  the  tragedy, — the  fellow  who  smoth 
ered  his  wife  because  she  misplaced  a  handkerchief,  you 
remember." 

Lord  Rokesle  had  risen,  and  he  paced  the  hall,  as  if 
fighting  down  resentment.  "I  am  no  Othello,"  he  said 
at  last ;  "though,  indeed,  I  think  that  the  love  I  bear  you 
is  of  a  sort  which  rarely  stirs  our  English  blood.  Tis 
not  for  nothing  I  am  half -Spaniard.  I  warn  you,  Anas- 
tasia,  my  love  is  a  consuming  blaze  that  will  not  pause 
for  considerations  of  policy  nor  even  of  honor.  And  you 
madden  me,  Anastasia!  To-day  you  hear  my  protesta 
tions  with  sighs  and  glances  and  faint  denials ;  to-morrow 
you  have  only  taunts  for  me.  Sometimes,  I  think,  'tis 
hatred  rather  than  love  I  bear  you.  Sometimes — "  He 
clutched  at  his  breast  with  a  wild  gesture.  "I  burn !"  he 
said.  "Woman,  give  me  back  a  human  heart  in  place  of 
this  flame  you  have  kindled  here,  or  I  shall  go  mad! 
Last  night  I  dreamed  of  hell,  and  of  souls  toasted  on 
burning  forks  and  fed  with  sops  of  bale-fire, — and  you 
were  there,  Anastasia,  where  the  flames  leaped  and  curled 
like  red-blazoned  snakes  about  the  poor  damned.  And 
I,  too,  was  there.  And  through  eternity  I  heard  you  cry 
to  God  in  vain,  O  dear,  wonderful,  golden-haired  woman ! 


SIMON'S  HOUR  15 


and  we  could  see  Him,  somehow, — see  Him,  a  great 
way  off,  with  straight,  white  brows  that  frowned  upon 
you  pitilessly.  And  I  was  glad.  For  I  knew  then  that 
I  hated  you.  And  even  now,  when  I  think  I  must  go  mad 
for  love  of  you,  I  yet  hate  you  with  a  fervor  that  shakes 
and  thrills  in  every  fibre  of  me.  Oh,  I  burn,  I  burn !"  he 
cried,  with  the  same  frantic  clutching  at  his  breast. 

Lady  Allonby  had  risen. 

"Positively,  I  must  ask  you  to  open  a  window  if  you 
intend  to  continue  in  this  strain.  D'ye  mean  to  suffocate 
me,  n>y  Lord,  with  your  flames  and  your  blazes  and  your 
brimstone  and  so  on  ?  You  breathe  conflagrations,  like  a 
devil  in  a  pantomime.  I  had  as  soon  converse  with  a 
piece  of  fireworks.  So,  if  you'll  pardon  me,  I  will  go 
to  my  brother." 

At  the  sound  of  her  high,  crisp  speech  his  frenzy  fell 
from  him  like  a  mantle.  "And  you  let  me  kiss  you  yes 
terday!  Oh,  I  know  you  struggled,  but  you  did  not 
struggle  very  hard,  did  you,  Anastasia?" 

"Why,  what  a  notion!"  cried  Lady  Allonby;  "as  if  a 
person  should  bother  seriously  one  way  or  the  other  about 
the  antics  of  an  amorous  clodhopper !  Meanwhile,  I  re 
peat,  my  Lord,  I  wish  to  go  to  my  brother." 

"Egad!"  Lord  Rokesle  retorted,  "that  reminds  me  I 
have  been  notably  remiss.  I  bear  you  a  message  from 
Harry.  He  had  to-night  a  letter  from  Job  Nangle,  who, 
it  seems,  has  a  purchaser  for  Trevor's  Folly  at  last.  The 
fellow  is  with  our  excellent  Nangle  at  Peniston  Friars, 
and  offers  liberal  terms  if  the  sale  be  instant.  The  chance 
was  too  promising  to  let  slip,  so  Harry  left  the  island  an 
hour  ago.  It  happened  by  a  rare  chance  that  some  of  my 
fellows  were  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  the  mainland, 


16  GALLANTRY 


— and  he  knew  that  he  could  safely  entrust  you  to  Mrs. 
Morfit's  duennaship,  he  said." 

"He  should  not  have  done  so,"  Lady  Allonby  observed, 
as  if  in  a  contention  of  mind.  "He — I  will  go  to  Mrs. 
Morfit,  then,  to  confess  to  her  in  frankness  that,  after  all 
these  rockets  and  bonfires — " 

"Why,  that's  the  unfortunate  part  of  the  whole  affair," 
said  Lord  Rokesle.  "The  same  boat  brought  Sabina  a 
letter  which  summoned  her  to  the  bedside  of  her  hus 
band,1  who,  it  appears,  lies  desperately  ill  at  Kuyper 
Manor.  It  happened  by  a  rare  chance  that  some  of  my 
fellows  were  on  the  point  of  setting  out  for  the  mainland 
— from  Heriz  pier  yonder,  not  from  the  end  of  the  island 
whence  Harry  sailed, — so  she  and  her  maid  embarked  in- 
stanter.  Of  course,  there  was  your  brother  here  to  play 
propriety,  she  said.  And  by  the  oddest  misfortune  in  the 
world,"  Lord  Rokesle  sighed,  "I  forgot  to  tell  her  that 
Harry  Heleigh  had  left  Usk  a  half-hour  earlier.  My 
memory  is  lamentably  treacherous." 

But  Lady  Allonby  had  dropped  all  affectation.  "You 
coward !  You  planned  this  !" 

"Candidly,  yes.  Nangle  is  my  agent  as  well  as  Harry's, 
you  may  remember.  I  have  any  quantity  of  his  letters, 
and  of  course  an  equal  number  of  Archibald's.  So  I 
spent  the  morning  in  my  own  apartments,  Anastasia, — 
tracing  letters  against  the  window-pane,  which  was,  I 
suppose,  a  childish  recreation,  but  then  what  would  you 
have?  As  you  very  justly  observe,  country  life  invari 
ably  coarsens  a  man's  tastes ;  and  accordingly,  as  you  may 

1  Archibald  Morfit,  M.P.  for  Salop,  and  in  1753  elected  Speaker, 
which  office  he  declined  on  account  of  ill-health.  He  was  created 
a  baronet  in  1758,  through  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk's  influence. 


SIMON'S  HOUR  17 


now  recall,  I  actually  declined  a  game  of  ecarte  with  you 
in  order  to  indulge  in,  these  little  forgeries.  Decidedly, 
my  dear,  you  must  train  your  husband's  imagination  for 
superior  flights — when  you  are  Lady  Rokesle." 

She  was  staring  at  him  as  though  he  had  been  a  portent. 
"I  am  alone,"  she  said.  "Alone — in  this  place — with 
you !  Alone !  you  devil !" 

"Your  epithets  increase  in  vigor.  Just  now  I  was  only 
a  clodhopper.  Well,  I  can  but  repeat  that  it  rests  with 
you  to  make  me  what  you  will.  Though,  indeed,  you  are 
to  all  intent  alone  upon  Usk,  and  upon  Usk  there  are 
many  devils.  There  are  ten  of  them  on  guard  yonder, 
by  the  way,  in  case  your  brother  shor  '  *  return  inoppor 
tunely,  though  that's  scarcely  probabU,.  Obedient  devils, 
you  observe,  Anastasia, — devils  who  exert  and  check 
their  deviltry  as  I  bid  'em,  for  they  esteem  me  Lucifer's 
lieutenant.  And  I  grant  the  present  situation  is  an  out 
rage  to  propriety,  yet  the  evil  is  not  incurable.  Lady 
Allonby  may  not,  if  she  value  her  reputation,  pass  to 
night  at  Stornoway;  but  here  am  I,  all  willingness,  and 
upstairs  is  the  parson.  Believe  me,  Anastasia,  the  most 
vinegarish  prude  could  never  object  to  Lady  Rokesle's 
spending  to-night  at  Stornoway." 

"Let  me  think,  let  me  think!"  Lady  Allonby  said,  and 
her  hands  plucked  now  at  her  hair,  now  at  her  dress. 
She  appeared  dazed.  "I  can't  think!"  she  wailed  on  a 
sudden.  "I  am  afraid.  I —  O  Vincent,  Vincent,  you 
cannot  do  this  thing!  I  trusted  you,  Vincent.  I  know 
I  let  you  make  love  to  me,  and  I  relished  having  you 
make  love  to  me.  Women  are  like  that.  But  I  cannot 
marry  you,  Vincent.  There  is  a  man,  yonder  in  Eng 
land,  whom  I  love.  He  does  not  care  for  me  any  more, 


18  GALLANTRY 


— he  is  in  love  with  my  step-daughter.  That  is  very 
amusing,  is  it  not,  Vincent?  Some  day  I  may  be  his 
mother-in-law.  Why  don't  you  laugh,  Vincent?  Come, 
let  us  both  laugh — first  at  this  and  then  at  the  jest  you 
have  just  played  on  me.  Do  you  know,  for  an  instant, 
I  believed  you  were  in  earnest?  But  Harry  went  to 
sleep  over  the  cards,  didn't  he?  And  Mrs.  Morfit  has 
gone  to  bed  with  one  of  her  usual  headaches?  Of 
course ;  and  you  thought  you  would  retaliate  upon  me  for 
teasing  you.  You  were  quite  right.  'Twas  an  excellent 
jest.  Now  let  us  laugh  at  it.  Laugh,  Vincent!  Oh!" 
she  said  now,  more  shrilly,  "for  the  love  of  God,  laugh, 
laugh ! — or  I  shall  go  mad !" 

But  Lord  Rokesle  was  a  man  of  ice.  "Matrimony  is 
a  serious  matter,  Anastasia;  'tis  not  becoming  in  those 
who  are  about  to  enter  it  to  exhibit  undue  levity.  I  won 
der  what's  keeping  Simon  ?" 

"Simon  Orts !"  she  said,  in  a  half-whisper.  Then  she 
came  toward  Lord  Rokesle,  smiling.  "Why,  of  course, 
I  teased  you,  Vincent,  but  there  was  never  any  hard 
feeling,  was  there?  And  you  really  wish  me  to  marry 
you?  Well,  we  must  see,  Vincent.  But,  as  you  say, 
matrimony  is  a  serious  matter.  D'ye  know  you  say  very 
sensible  things,  Vincent? — not  at  all  like  those  silly  fops 
yonder  in  London.  I  dare  say  you  and  I  would  be  very 
happy  together.  But  you  wouldn't  have  any  respect  for 
me  if  I  married  you  on  a  sudden  like  this,  would  you? 
Of  course  not.  So  you  will  let  me  consider  it.  Come 
to  me  a  month  from  now,  say, — is  that  too  long  to  wait? 
Well,  I  think  'tis  too  long  myself.  Say  a  week,  then.  I 
must  have  my  wedding-finery,  you  comprehend.  We 
women  are  such  vain  creatures — not  big  and  brave  and 


SIMON'S  HOUR  19 


sensible  like  you  men.  See,  for  example,  how  much 
bigger  your  hand  is  than  mine — mine's  quite  lost  in  it, 
isn't  it?  So — since  I  am  only  a  vain,  chattering,  help 
less  female  thing, — you  are  going  to  indulge  me  and  let 
me  go  up  to  London  for  some  new  clothes,  aren't  you, 
Vincent?  Of  course  you  will;  and  we  will  be  married 
in  a  week.  But  you  will  let  me  go  to  London  first,  won't 
you? — away  from  this  dreadful  place,  away — I  didn't 
mean  that.  I  suppose  it  is  a  very  agreeable  place  when 
you  get  accustomed  to  it.  And  'tis  only  for  clothes — Oh, 
I  swear  it  is  only  for  clothes,  Vincent!  And  you  said 
you  would — yes,  only  a  moment  ago  you  distinctly  said 
you  would  let  me  go.  Tis  not  as  if  I  were  not  coming 
back — who  said  I  would  not  come  back?  Of  course  I 
will.  But  you  must  give  me  time,  Vincent  dear, — you 
must,  you  must,  I  tell  you!  O  God!"  she  sobbed,  and 
flung  from  her  the  loathed  hand  she  was  fondling,  "it's 
no  use !" 

"No,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  rather  sadly.  "I  am  not 
Samson,  nor  are  you  Delilah  to  cajole  me.  It's  of  no 
use,  Anastasia.  I  would  have  preferred  that  you  came  to 
me  voluntarily,  but  since  you  cannot,  I  mean  to  take  you 
unwilling.  Simon,"  he  called,  loudly,  "does  that  rascal 
intend  to  spin  out  his  dying  interminably?  Charon's 
waiting,  man." 

From  above,  "Coming,  my  Lord,"  said  Simon  Orts. 

Ill 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  descended  the  stairway 
with  deliberation.  His  eyes  twitched  from  the  sobbing 
woman  to  Lord  Rokesle,  and  then  back  again,  in  that  fur- 


20  GALLANTRY 


tive  way  Orts  had  of  glancing  about  a  room  without  mov 
ing  his  head ;  he  seemed  to  lie  in  ambush  under  his  gross 
brows;  and  whatever  his  thoughts  may  have  been,  he 
gave  them  no  utterance. 

"Simon,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  "Lady  Allonby  is  about  to 
make  me  the  happiest  of  men.  Have  you  a  prayer-book 
about  you,  Master  Parson? — for  here's  a  loving  couple 
desirous  of  entering  the  blessed  state  of  matrimony." 

"The  match  is  somewhat  of  the  suddenest,"  said  Simon 
Orts.  "But  I  have  known  these  impromptu  marriages 
to  turn  out  very  happily — very  happily,  indeed,"  he  re 
peated,  rubbing  his  hands  together,  and  smiling  horribly. 
"I  gather  that  Mr.  Heleigh  will  not  grace  the  ceremony 
with  his  presence?" 

They  understood  each  other,  these  two.  Lord  Rokesle 
grinned,  and  in  a  few  words  told  the  ecclesiastic  of  the 
trick  which  had  insured  the  absence  of  the  other  guests ; 
and  Simon  Orts  also  grinned,  but  respectfully, — the  grin 
of  the  true  lackey  wearing  his  master's  emotions  like  his 
master's  clothes,  at  second-hand. 

"A  very  pretty  stratagem,"  said  Simon  Orts ;  "uncon 
ventional,  I  must  confess,  but  it  is  proverbially  known 
that  all's  fair  in  love." 

At  this  Lady  Allonby  came  to  him,  catching  his  hand. 
"There  is  only  you,  Simon.  Oh,  there  is  no  hope  in  that 
lustful  devil  yonder.  But  you  are  not  all  base,  Simon. 
You  are  a  man, — ah,  God !  if  I  were  a  man  I  would  rip 
out  that  devil's  heart — his  defiled  and  infamous  heart! 
I  would  trample  upon  it,  I  would  feed  it  to  dogs — !" 
She  paused.  Her  impotent  fury  was  jerking  at  every 
muscle,  was  choking  her.  "But  I  am  only  a  woman. 
Simon,  you  used  to  love  me.  You  cannot  have  forgotten, 


SIMON'S  HOUR  21 


Simon.  Oh,  haven't  you  any  pity  on  a  woman?  Re 
member,  Simon — remember  how  happy  we  were!  Don't 
you  remember  how  the  night- jars  used  to  call  to  one  an 
other  when  we  sat  on  moonlit  evenings  under  the  elm- 
tree?  And  d'ye  remember  the  cottage  we  planned, 
Simon? — where  we  were  going  to  live  on  bread  and 
cheese  and  kisses?  And  how  we  quarrelled  because  I 
wanted  to  train  vines  over  it  ?  You  said  the  rooms  would 
be  too  dark.  You  said — oh,  Simon,  Simon!  if  only  I 
had  gone  to  live  with  you  in  that  little  cottage  we  planned 
and  never  builded !"  Lady  Allonby  was  at  his  feet  now. 
She  fawned  upon  him  in  somewhat  the  manner  of  a 
spaniel  expectant  of  a  thrashing. 

The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  dispassionately  ran  over 
the  leaves  of  his  prayer-book,  till  he  had  found  the  mar 
riage  service,  and  then  closed  the  book,  his  forefinger 
marking  the  place.  Lord  Rokesle  stood  apart,  and  with 
a  sly  and  meditative  smile  observed  them. 

"Your  plea  is  a  remarkable  one,"  said  Simon  Orts. 
"As  I  understand  it,  you  appeal  to  me  to  meddle  in  your 
affairs  on  the  ground  that  you  once  made  a  fool  of  me. 
I  think  the  obligation  is  largely  optional.  I  remember 
quite  clearly  the  incidents  to  which  you  refer;  and  it 
shames  even  an  old  sot  like  me  to  think  that  I  was  ever 
so  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  a  good-for-nothing  jilt.  I  re 
member  every  vow  you  ever  made  to  me,  Anastasia,  and 
I  know  they  were  all  lies.  I  remember  every  kiss,  every 
glance,  every  caress — all  lies,  Anastasia!  And  gad!  the 
only  emotion  it  rouses  in  me  is  wonder  as  to  why  my 
worthy  patron  here  should  want  to  marry  you.  Of 
course  you  are  wealthy,  but,  personally,  I  would  not  have 
you  for  double  the  money.  I  must  ask  you  to  rise,  Lady 


22  GALLANTRY 


Rokesle. — Pardon  me  if  I  somewhat  anticipate  your 
title." 

Lady  Allonby  stumbled  to  her  feet.  "Is  there  no  man 
hood  in  the  world?"  she  asked,  with  a  puzzled  voice. 
"Has  neither  of  you  ever  heard  of  manhood,  though  but 
as  distantly  as  men  hear  summer  thunder  ?  Had  neither 
of  you  a  woman  for  a  mother — a  woman,  as  I  am — or  a 
father  who  was  not — O  God ! — not  as  you  are?" 

"These  rhetorical  passages,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  "while 
very  elegantly  expressed,  are  scarcely  to  the  point.  So 
you  and  Simon  went  a-philandering  once?  Egad,  that 
lends  quite  a  touch  of  romance  to  the  affair.  But  de 
spatch,  Parson  Simon, — your  lady's  for  your  betters  now." 

"Dearly  beloved, — "  said  Simon  Orts. 

"Simon,  you  are  not  all  base.  I  am  helpless,  Simon, 
utterly  helpless.  There  was  a  Simon  once  would  not 
have  seen  me  weep.  There  was  a  Simon — " 

" — we  are  gathered  together  here  in  the  sight  of  God — " 

"You  cannot  do  it,  Simon, — do  I  not  know  you  to  the 
marrow?  Remember — not  me — not  the  vain  folly  of  my 
girlhood ! — but  do  you  remember  the  man  you  have  been, 
Simon  Orts !"  Fiercely  Lady  Allonby  caught  him,  by  the 
shoulder.  "For  you  do  remember!  You  do  remember, 
don't  you,  Simon  ?" 

The  Vicar  stared  at  her.  "The  man  I  have  been,"  said 
Simon  Orts;  "yes! — the  man  I  have  been!"  Something 
clicked  in  his  throat  with  sharp  distinctness. 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  yawning,  "this 
getting  married  appears  to  be  an  uncommonly  tedious 
business." 

Then  Simon  Orts  laid  aside  his  prayer-book  and  said : 
"I  cannot  do  it,  my  Lord.  The  woman's  right." 


SIMON'S  HOUR  23 


She  clapped  her  hands  to  her  breast,  and  stood  thus, 
reeling  upon  her  feet.  You  would  have  thought  her 
in  the  crisis  of  some  physical  agony;  immediately  she 
breathed  again,  deeply  but  with  a  flinching  inhalation, 
as  though  the  contact  of  the  air  scorched  her  lungs,  and, 
swaying,  fell.  It  was  the  Vicar  who  caught  her  as  she 
fell. 

"I  entreat  your  pardon  ?"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  and  with 
out  study  of  Lady  Allonby 's  condition.  This  was  men's 
business  now,  and  over  it  Rokesle's  brow  began  to  pucker. 

Simon  Orts  bore  Lady  Allonby  to  the  settle.  He 
passed  behind  it  to  arrange  a  cushion  under  her  head, 
with  an  awkward,  grudging  tenderness;  and  then  rose 
to  face  Lord  Rokesle  across  the  disordered  pink  frip 
peries. 

"The  woman's  right,  my  Lord.     There  is  such  a  thing 
as  manhood.     Manhood!"  Simon  Orts  repeated,  with  a 
sort  of  wonder;  "why,   I  might  have  boasted  it  once. 
Then  came  this  cuddling  bitch  to  trick  me  into  a  fool's 
paradise — to  trick  me  into  utter  happiness,  till  Stephen 
Allonby,  a  marquis'  son,  clapped  eyes  on  her  and  whis 
tled, — and  within  the  moment  she  had  flung  me  aside. 
May  God  forgive  me,  I  forgot  I  was  His  servant  then! 
I  set  out  to  go  to  the  devil,  but  I  went  farther ;  for  I  went 
to  you,  Vincent  Floyer.    You  gave  me  bread  when  I  was 
starving, — but  'twas  at  a  price.    Ay,  the  price  was  that 
I  dance  attendance  on  you,  to  aid  and  applaud  your 
knaveries,  to  be  your  pander,  your  lackey,  your  con 
federate, — that  I  puff  out,  in  effect,  the  last  spark  of  man 
hood  in  my  sot's  body.     Oh,  I  am  indeed  beholden  to 
you  two !  to  her  for  making  me  a  sot,  and  to  you  for  mak 
ing  me  a  lackey.     But  I  will  save  her  from  you,  Vincent 


24  GALLANTRY 


Fioyer.  Not  for  her  sake" — Orts  looked  down  upon  the 
prostrate  woman  and  snarled.  "Christ,  no!  But  111 
do  it  for  the  sake  of  the  boy  I  have  been,  since  I  owe 
that  boy  some  reparation.  I  have  ruined  his  nimble  body, 
I  have  dulled  the  wits  he  gloried  in,  I  have  made  his  name 
a  foul  thing  that  honesty  spits  out  of  her  mouth ;  but,  if 
God  yet  reigns  in  heaven,  I  cleanse  that  name  to-night !" 

"Oh,  bless  me,"  Lord  Rokesle  observed;  "I  begin  to 
fear  these  heroics  are  contagious.  Possibly  I,  too,  shall 
begin  to  rant  in  a  moment.  Meanwhile,  as  I  understand 
it,  you  decline  to  perform  the  ceremony.  I  have  had  to 
warn  you  before  this,  Simon,  that  you  mustn't  take  too 
much  gin  when  I  am  apt  to  need  you.  You  are  very 
pitifully  drunk,  man.  So  you  defy  me  and  my  evil 
courses !  You  defy  me !"  Rokesle  laughed,  genially,  for 
the  notion  amused  him.  "Wine  is  a  mocker,  Simon. 
But  come,  despatch,  Parson  Tosspot,  and  let's  have  no 
more  of  these  lofty  sentiments." 

"I  cannot  do  it.  I —  O  my  Lord,  my  Lord!  You 
wouldn't  kill  an  unarmed  man !"  Simon  Orts  whined,  with 
a  sudden  alteration  of  tone;  for  Lord  Rokesle  had  com 
posedly  drawn  his  sword,  and  its  point  was  now  not  far 
from  the  Vicar's  breast. 

"I  trust  that  I  shall  not  be  compelled  to.  Egad,  it  is  a 
very  ludicrous  business  when  the  bridegroom  is  forced  to 
hold  a  sword  to  the  parson's  bosom  all  during  the  cere 
mony;  but  a  ceremony  we  must  have,  Simon,  for  Lady 
Allonby's  jointure  is  considerable.  Otherwise —  Harkee, 
my  man,  don't  play  the  fool !  there  are  my  fellows  yonder, 
any  one  of  whom  would  twist  your  neck  at  a  word  from 
me.  And  do  you  think  I  would  boggle  at  a  word  ?  Gad, 
Simon,  I  believed  you  knew  me  better !" 


SIMON'S  HOUR  25 


The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  kept  silence  for  an  instant ; 
his  eyes  were  twitching  about  the  hall,  in  that  stealthy 
way  of  his.  Finally,  "It  is  no  use,"  said  he.  "A  poor 
knave  cannot  afford  the  luxury  of  honesty.  My  life  is 
not  a  valuable  one,  perhaps,  but  even  vermin  have  an 
aversion  to  death.  I  resume  my  lackeyship,  Lord 
Rokesle.  Perhaps  'twas  only  the  gin.  Perhaps —  In 
any  event,  I  am  once  more  at  your  service.  And  as 
guaranty  of  this  I  warn  you  that  you  are  exhibiting  in 
the  affair  scant  forethought.  Mr.  Heleigh  is  'but  three 
miles  distant.  If  he,  by  any  chance,  get  wind  of  this 
business,  Denstroude  will  find  a  boat  for  him  readily 
enough — ay,  and  men,  too,  now  that  the  Colonel  is  at 
feud  with  you.  Many  of  your  people  visit  the  mainland 
every  night,  and  in  their  cups  the  inhabitants  of  Usk  are 
not  taciturn.  An  idle  word  spoken  over  an  inn-table  may 
bring  an  armed  company  thundering  about  your  gates. 
You  should  have  set  sentinels,  my  Lord." 

"I  have  already  done  so,"  Rokesle  said ;  "there  are  ten 
of  'em  yonder.  Still  there  is  something  in  what  you  say. 
We  will  make  this  affair  certain." 

Lord  Rokesle  crossed  the  hall  to  the  foot  of  the  stair 
way  and  struck  thrice  upon  the  gong  hanging  there. 
Presently  the  door  leading  to  the  corridor  was  opened, 
and  a  man  came  into  the  hall. 

"Punshon,"  said  Lord  Rokesle,  "have  any  boats  left 
the  island  to-night  ?" 

"No,  my  Lord." 

"You  will  see  that  none  do.  Also,  no  man  is  to  leave 
Stornoway  to-night,  either  for  Heriz  Magna  or  the  main 
land  ;  and  nobody  is  to  enter  Stornoway.  Do  you  under 
stand,  Punshon?" 


26  GALLANTRY 


"Yes,  my  Lord." 

"If  you  will  pardon  me,"  said  Simon  Orts,  with  a  grin, 
"I  have  an  appointment  to-night.  You'd  not  have  me 
break  faith  with  a  lady  ?" 

"You  are  a  lecherous  rascal,  Simon.  But  do  as  you  are 
bid  and  I  indulge  you.  I  am  not  afraid  of  your  going  to 
Harry  Heleigh — after  performing  the  ceremony.  Nay, 
my  lad,  for  you  are  thereby  particeps  criminis.  You  will 
pass  Mr.  Orts,  Punshon,  to  the  embraces  of  his  whore. 
Nobody  else." 

Simon  Orts  waved  his  hand  toward  Lady  Allonby. 
"  'Twere  only  kindness  to  warn  Mr.  Punshon  there  may 
be  some  disturbance  shortly.  A  lamentation  or  so." 

At  this  Lord  Rokesle  clapped  him  upon  the  shoulder 
and  heartily  laughed.  "That's  the  old  Simon — always 
on  the  alert.  Punshon,  no  one  is  to  enter  this  wing  of 
the  castle,  on  any  pretext — no  one,  you  understand. 
Whatever  noises  you  may  hear,  you  will  pay  no  attention. 
Now  go." 

He  went  toward  Lady  Allonby  and  took  her  hand. 
"Come,  Anastasia!"  said  he.  "Hold,  she  has  really 
swooned !  Why,  what  the  devil,  Simon — !" 

Simon  Orts  had  flung  the  gong  into  the  fire.  "She 
will  be  sounding  that  when  she  comes  to,"  said  Simon 
Orts.  "You  don't  want  a  rumpus  fit  to  vex  the  dead 
yonder  in  the  Chapel."  Simon  Orts  stood  before  the 
fire,  turning  the  leaves  of  his  prayer-book.  He  seemed 
to  have  difficulty  in  finding  again  the  marriage  service. 
You  heard  the  outer  door  of  the  corridor  closing,  heard 
chains  dragged  ponderously,  the  heavy  falling  of  a  bolt. 
Orts  dropped  the  book  and,  springing  into  the  arm-chair, 
wrested  Aluric  Floyer's  sword  from  its  fastening. 


SIMON'S  HOUR  27 


"Tricked,  tricked!"  said  Simon  Orts.  "You  were  al 
ways  a  fool,  Vincent  Floyer." 

Lord  Rokesle  blinked  at  him,  as  if  dazzled  by  unex 
pected  light.  "What  d'ye  mean  ?" 

"I  have  the  honor  to  repeat — you  are  a  fool.  I  did  not 
know  the  place  was  guarded — you  told  me.  I  needed 
privacy ;  by  your  orders  no  one  is  to  enter  here  to-night. 
I  needed  a  sword — you  had  it  hanging  here,  ready  for 
the  first  comer.  Oh,  beyond  doubt,  you  are  a  fool,  Vin 
cent  Floyer!"  Standing  in  the  arm-chair,  Simon  Orts 
bowed  fantastically,  and  then  leaped  to  the  ground  with 
the  agility  of  an  imp. 

"You  have  tricked  me  neatly,"  Lord  Rokesle  conceded, 
and  his  tone  did  not  lack  honest  admiration.  "By  gad, 
I  have  even  given  them  orders  to  pass  you — after  you 
have  murdered  me!  Exceedingly  clever,  Simon, — but 
one  thing  you  overlooked.  You  are  very  far  from  my 
match  at  fencing.  So  I  shall  presently  kill  you.  And 
afterward,  ceremony  or  no  ceremony,  the  woman's  mine." 

"I  am  not  convinced  of  that,"  the  Vicar  observed. 
'*  'Tis  true  I  am  no  swordsman ;  but  there  are  behind  my 
sword  forces  superior  to  any  which  skill  might  muster. 
The  sword  of  your  fathers  fights  against  you,  my  Lord — 
against  you  that  are  their  disgrace.  They  loved  honor 
and  truth;  you  betrayed  honor,  you  knew  not  truth. 
They  revered  womanhood;  you  reverence  nothing,  and 
your  life  smirches  your  mother's  memory.  Ah,  believe 
me,  they  all  fight  against  you!  Can  you  not  see  them, 
my  Lord? — yonder  at  my  back? — old  Aluric  Floyer  and 
all  those  honest  gentlemen,  whose  blood  now  blushes  in 
your  body — ay,  blushes  to  be  confined  in  a  vessel  so 
ignoble!  Their  armament  fights  against  you,  a  host  of 


28  GALLANTRY 


gallant  phantoms.  And  rfiy  hatred,  too,  fights  against 
you — the  cur's  bitter  hatred  for  the  mastering  hand  it 
dares  not  bite.  I  dare  now.  You  made  me  your  pander, 
you  slew  my  manhood;  in  return,  body  and  soul,  I  de 
molish  you.  Even  my  hatred  for  that  woman  fights 
against  you;  she  robbed  me  of  my  honor — is  it  not  a 
tragical  revenge  to  save  her  honor,  to  hold  it  in  my  hand, 
mine,  to  dispose  of  as  I  elect, — and  then  fling  it  to  her 
as  a  thing  contemptible?  Between  you,  you  have  ruined 
me;  but  it  is  Simon's  hour  to-night.  I  shame  you  both, 
and  past  the  reach  of  thought,  for  presently  I  shall  take 
your  life — in  the  high-tide  of  your  iniquity,  praise  God! 
— and  presently  I  shall  give  my  life  for  hers.  Ah,  I  am 
fey,  my  Lord !  You  are  a  dead  man,  Vincent  Floyer,  for 
the  powers  of  good  and  the  powers  of  evil  alike  contend 
against  you." 

He  spoke  rather  sadly  than  otherwise ;  and  there  was  a 
vague  trouble  in  Lord  Rokesle's  face,  though  he  shook 
his  head  impatiently.  "These  are  fine  words  to  come 
from  the  dirtiest  knave  unhanged  in  England.'* 

"Great  ends  may  be  attained  by  petty  instruments, 
my  Lord ;  a  filthy  turtle  quenched  the  genius  of  /Eschylus, 
and  they  were  only  common  soldiers  who  shed  the  blood 
that  redeemed  the  world." 

Lord  Rokesle  pished  at  this.  Yet  he  was  strangely 
unruffled.  He  saluted  with  quietude,  as  equal  to  equal, 
and  the  two  crossed  blades. 

Simon  Orts  fought  clumsily,  but  his  encroachment  was 
unwavering.  From  the  first  he  pressed  his  opponent 
with  a  contained  resolution.  The  Vicar  was  as  a  man 
fighting  in  a  dream — with  a  drugged  obstinacy,  unswerv 
ing.  Lord  Rokesle  had  wounded  him  in  the  arm,  but 


SIMON'S  HOUR  29 


Orts  did  not  seem  aware  of  this.  He  crowded  upon  his 
master.  Now  there  were  little  beads  of  sweat  on  Lord 
Rokesle's  brow,  and  his  tongue  protruded  from  his 
mouth,  licking  at  it  ravenously.  Step  by  step  Lord 
Rokesle  drew  back ;  there  was  no  withstanding  this  dumb 
fanatic,  who  did  not  know  when  he  was  wounded,  who 
scarcely  parried  attack. 

"Even  on  earth  you  shall  have  a  taste  of  hell,"  said 
Simon  Orts.  "There  is  terror  in  your  eyes,  my  worthy 
patron." 

Lord  Rokesle  flung  up  his  arms  as  the  sword  dug  into 
his  breast.  "I  am  afraid!  I  am  afraid!"  he  wailed. 
Then  he  coughed,  and  seemed  with  his  straining  hands 
to  push  a  great  weight  from  him  as  the  blood  frothed 
about  his  lips  and  nostrils.  "O  Simon,  I  am  afraid! 
Help  me,  Simon !" 

Old  custom  spoke  there.  Followed  silence,  and  pres 
ently  the  empty  body  sprawled  upon  the  floor.  Vincent 
Floyer  had  done  with  it. 

IV 

Simon  Orts  knelt,  abstractedly  wiping  Aluric  Floyer's 
sword  upon  the  corner  of  a  rug.  It  may  be  that  he  de 
rived  comfort  from  this  manual  employment  which  neces 
sitated  attention  without  demanding  that  it  concentrate  his 
mind ;  it  may  have  enabled  him  to  forget  how  solitary  the 
place  was,  how  viciously  his  garments  rustled  when  he 
moved :  the  fact  is  certain  that  he  cleaned  the  sword,  over 
and  over  again. 

Then  a  scraping  of  silks  made  him  wince.  Turning, 
he  found  Lady  Allonby  half -erect  upon  the  settle.  She 


30  GALLANTRY 


stared  about  her  with  a  kind  of  infantile  wonder;  her 
glance  swept  over  Lord  Rokesle's  body,  without  to  all 
appearance  finding  it  an  object  of  remarkable  interest. 
"Is  he  dead?" 

"Yes,"  said  Simon  Orts;  "get  up!"  His  voice  had  a 
rasp;  she  might  from  his  tone  have  been  a  refractory 
dog.  But  Lady  Allonby  obeyed  him. 

"We  are  in  a  devil  of  a  mess,"  said  Simon  Orts;  "yet 
I  see  a  way  out  of  it — if  you  can  keep  your  head.  Can 
you?" 

"I  am  past  fear,"  she  said,  dully.  "I  drown,  Simon, 
in  a  sea  of  feathers.  I  can  get  no  foothold,  I  clutch  noth 
ing  that  is  steadfast,  and  I  smother.  I  have  been  like 
this  in  dreams.  I  am  very  tired,  Simon." 

He  took  her  hand,  collectedly  appraising  her  pulse.  He 
put  his  own  hand  upon  her  bared  bosom,  and  felt  the 
beat  of  her  heart.  "No,"  said  Simon  Orts,  "you  are  not 
afraid.  Now,  listen:  You  lack  time  to  drown  in  a  sea 
of  feathers.  You  are  upon  Usk,  among  men  who  differ 
from  beasts  by  being  a  thought  more  devilish,  and  from 
devils  by  being  a  little  more  bestial ;  it  is  my  opinion  that 
the  earlier  you  get  away  the  better.  Punshon  has  orders 
to  pass  Simon  Orts.  Very  well ;  put  on  this." 

He  caught  up  his  long  cloak  and  wrapped  it  about  her. 
Lady  Allonby  stood  rigid.  But  immediately  he  frowned 
and  removed  the  garment  from  her  shoulders. 

"That  won't  do.  Your  skirts  are  too  big.  Take  'em 
off." 

Submissively  she  did  so,  and  presently  stood  before 
him  in  her  under-petticoat. 

"You  cut  just  now  a  very  ludicrous  figure,  Anastasia. 
I  dare  assert  that  the  nobleman  who  formerly  inhabited 


SIMON'S  HOUR  31 


yonder  carcass  would  still  be  its  tenant  if  he  had  known 
how  greatly  the  beauty  he  went  mad  for  was  beholden  to 
the  haberdasher  and  the  mantua-maker,  and  quite  possibly 
the  chemist.  Persicos  odi,  Anastasia;  'tis  a  humiliating 
reflection  that  the  hair  of  a  dead  woman  artfully  disposed 
about  a  living  head  should  have  the  power  to  set  men 
squabbling,  and  murder  be  at  times  engendered  in  a  paint- 
pot.  However,  wrap  yourself  in  the  cloak.  Now  turn 
up  the  collar, — so.  Now  pull  down  the  hatbrim.  Um — 
J  a — pretty  well.  Chance  favors  us  unblushingly.  You 
may  thank  your  stars  it  is  a  rainy  night  and  that  I  am  a 
little  man.  You  detest  little  men,  don't  you?  Yes,  I 
remember."  Simon  Orts  now  gave  his  orders,  emphasiz 
ing  each  with  a  not  over-clean  forefinger.  "When  I  open 
this  door  you  will  go  out  into  the  corridor.  Punshon  or 
one  of  the  others  will  be  on  guard  at  the  farther  end. 
Pay  no  attention  to  him.  There  is  only  one  light — on 
the  left.  Keep  to  the  right,  in  the  shadow.  Stagger  as 
you  go;  if  you  can  manage  a  hiccough,  the  imitation  will 
be  all  the  more  lifelike.  Punshon  will  expect  something 
of  the  sort,  and  he  will  not  trouble  you,  for  he  knows  that 
when  I  am  fuddled  I  am  quarrelsome.  'Tis  a  diverting 
world,  Anastasia,  wherein,  you  now  perceive,  habitual 
drunkenness  and  an  unbridled  temper  may  sometimes 
prove  commendable, — as  they  do  to-night,  when  they  aid 
persecuted  innocence!"  Here  Simon  Orts  gave  an  un 
pleasant  laugh. 

"But  I  do  not  understand — " 

"You  understand  very  little  except  coquetry  and  the 
proper  disposition  of  a  ruffle.  Yet  this  is  simple.  My 
horse  is  tied  at  the  postern.  Mount — astride,  mind. 
You  know  the  way  to  the  Vicarage,  so  does  the  horse; 


32  GALLANTRY 


you  will  find  that  posturing  half-brother  of  mine  at  the 
Vicarage.  Tell  Frank  what  has  happened.  Tell  him  to 
row  you  to  the  mainland;  tell  him  to  conduct  you  to 
Colonel  Denstroude's.  Then  you  must  shift  for  your 
self;  but  Denstroude  is  a  gentleman,  and  Denstroude 
would  protect  Beelzebub  if  he  came  to  him  a  fugitive 
from  Vincent  Floyer.  Now  do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  and  seated  herself  before 
the  fire, — "yes>  I  understand.  I  am  to  slip  away  in  the 
darkness  and  leave  you  here  to  answer  for  Lord  Rokesle's 
death — to  those  devils.  La,  do  you  really  think  me  as 
base  as  that?" 

Now  Simon  Orts  was  kneeling  at  her  side.  The  black 
cloak  enveloped  her  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  turned-up 
collar  screened  her  sunny  hair;  in  the  shadow  of  the 
broad  hatbrim  you  could  see  only  her  eyes,  resplendent 
and  defiant,  and  in  them  the  reflection  of  the  vaulting 
flames.  "You  would  stay,  Anastasia?" 

"I  will  not  purchase  my  life  at  the  cost  of  yours.  I 
will  be  indebted  to  you  for  nothing,  Simon  Orts." 

The  Vicar  chuckled.  "Nor  appeared  Less  than  arch 
angel  ruined,"  he  said.  "No,  faith,  not  a  Whit  less !  We 
are  much  of  a  piece,  Anastasia.  Do  you  know — if  affairs 
had  fallen  out  differently — I  think  I  might  have  been  a 
man  and  you  a  woman?  As  it  is — "  Kneeling  still,  his 
glance  devoured  her.  "Yes,  you  would  stay.  And  you 
comprehend  what  staying  signifies.  Tis  pride,  your  dam 
nable  pride,  that  moves  you, — but  I  rejoice,  for  it  proves 
you  a  brave  woman.  Courage,  at  least,  you  possess,  and 
this  is  the  first  virtue  I  have  discovered  in  you  for  a  long 
while.  However,  there  is  no  necessity  for  your  staying. 
The  men  of  Usk  will  not  hurt  Simon  Orts." 


SIMON'S  HOUR  33 


She  was  very  eager  to  believe  this.  Lady  Allonby  had 
found  the  world  a  pleasant  place  since  her  widowhood. 
"They  will  not  kill  you?  You  swear  it,  Simon?" 

"Why,  the  man  was  their  tyrant.  They  obeyed  him 
— yes,  through  fear.  I  am  their  deliverer,  Anastasia. 
But  if  they  found  a  woman  here — a  woman  not  ill-look 
ing — "  Simon  Orts  snapped  his  fingers.  "Faith,  I  leave 
you  to  conjecture,"  said  he. 

They  had  both  risen,  he  smiling,  the  woman  in  a 
turbulence  of  hope  and  terror.  "Swear  to  it,  Simon!" 

"Anastasia,  were  affairs  as  you  suppose  them,,  I  would 
have  a  curt  while  to  live.  Were  affairs  as  you  suppose 
them,  I  would  stand  now  at  the  threshold  of  eternity. 
And  I  swear  to  you,  upon  my  soul's  salvation,  that  I  have 
nothing  to  fear.  Nothing  will  ever  hurt  me  any  more." 

"No,  you  would  not  dare  to  lie  in  the  moment  of 
death,"  she  said,  after  a  considerable  pause.  "I  believe 
you.  I  will  go.  Good-bye,  Simon."  Lady  Allonby  went 
toward  the  door  opening  into  the  corridor,  but  turned 
there  and  came  back  to  him.  "I  shall  never  see  you 
again.  And,  la,  I  think  that  I  rather  hate  you  than  other 
wise,  for  you  remind  me  of  things  I  would  willingly  for 
get.  But,  Simon,  I  wish  we  had  gone  to  live  in  that  little 
cottage  we  planned,  and  quarrelled  over,  and  never  built ! 
I  think  we  would  have  been  happy." 

Simon  Orts  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips.  "Yes,"  said  he, 
"we  would  have  been  happy.  I  would  have  been  by  this 
a  man  doing  a  man's  work  in  the  world,  and  you  a  matron, 
grizzling,  perhaps,  but  rich  in  content,  and  in  love  opulent. 
As  it  is,  you  have  your  flatterers,  your  gossip,  and  your 
cards ;  I  have  my  gin.  Good-bye,  Anastasia." 

"Simon,  why  have  you  done — this  ?" 


34  GALLANTRY 


The  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  flung  out  his  hands  in  a 
gesture  of  impotence.     "I  dare  confess  now  that  which 
even  to  myself  I  have  never  dared  confess.     I  suppose 
the  truth  of  it  is  that  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life." 
"I  am  sorry.     I  am  not  worth  it,  Simon." 
"No;  you  are  immeasurably  far  from  being  worth  it. 
But  one  does  not  justify  these  fancies  by  mathematics. 
Good-bye,  Anastasia." 


Holding  the  door  ajar,  the  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  heard 
a  horse's  hoofs  slap  their  leisurely  way  down  the  hillside. 
Presently  the  sound  died  and  he  turned  back  into  the 
hall. 

"A  brave  woman,  that !  Oh,  a  trifling,  shallow-hearted 
jilt,  but  a  brave  creature! 

"I  had  to  lie  to  her.  She  would  have  stayed  else.  And 
perhaps  it  is  true  that,  in  reality,  I  have  loved  her  all  my 
life, — or  in  any  event,  have  hankered  after  the  pink-and- 
white  flesh  of  her  as  any  gentleman  might.  Pschutt!  a 
pox  on  all  lechery  says  the  dying  man, — since  it  is  now 
necessary  to  put  that  strapping  yellow-haired  trollop  out 
of  your  mind,  Simon  Orts — yes,  after  all  these  years,  to 
put  her  quite  out  of  your  mind.  Faith,  she  might 
wheedle  me  now  to  her  heart's  content,  and  my  pulse 
would  never  budge;  for  I  must  devote  what  trivial  time 
there  is  to  hoping  they  will  kill  me  quickly.  He  was 
their  god,  that  man !" 

Simon  Orts  went  toward  the  dead  body,  looking  down 
into  the  distorted  face.  "And  I,  too,  loved  him.  Yes, 
such  as  he  was,  he  was  the  only  friend  I  had.  And  I 


SIMON'S  HOUR  35 


think  he  liked  rne,"  Simon  Orts  said  aloud,  with  a  touch 
of  shy  pride.  "Yes,  and  you  trusted  me,  didn't  you, 
Vincent?  Wait  for  me,  then,  my  Lord, — I  shall  not  be 
long.  And  now  I'll  serve  you  faithfully.  I  had  to  play 
the  man's  part,  you  know, — you  mustn't  grudge  old  Simon 
his  one  hour  of  manhood.  You  wouldn't,  I  think.  And 
in  any  event,  I  shall  be  with  you  presently,  and  you  can 
cuff  me  for  it  if  you  like — just  as  you  used  to  do." 

He  covered  the  dead  face  with  his  handkerchief,  but 
in  the  instant  he  drew  it  away.  "No,  not  this  coarse 
cambric.  You  were  too  much  of  a  fop,  Vincent.  I  will 
use  yours — the  finest  linen,  my  Lord.  You  see  old  Simon 
knows  your  tastes." 

He  drew  himself  erect  exultantly. 

"They  will  come  at  dawn  to  kill  me;  but  I  have  had 
my  hour.  God,  the  man  I  might  have  been!  And  now 
— well,  perhaps  He  would  not  be  offended  if  I  said  a  bit 
of  a  prayer  for  Vincent." 

So  the  Vicar  of  Heriz  Magna  knelt  beside  the  flesh  that 
had  been  Lord  Rokesle,  and  there  they  found  him  in  the 
morning. 


II 

LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS 

As  Played  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  April  i, 


"He  to  love  an  altar  built 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves  ; 
With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre, 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire; 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  ivith  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

MR.  ERWYN,  a  gentleman  of  the  town,  ceremonious  and  a 

coxcomb,  but  a  man  of  honor. 
LADY  ALLONBY,   a   woman   of   fashion,   and   widow   to 

Lord  Stephen  Allonby. 
Miss  ALLONBY,  daughter  to  Lord  Stephen  by  a  former 

marriage,  of  a  considerable  fortune  in  her  own  hands. 

FOOTMEN  to  Lady  Allonby;  and  in  the  Proem  FRANCIS 
ORTS,  commonly  know  as  FRANCIS  VANRINGHAM,  a 
dissolute  play-actor. 

SCENE 

A  drawing-room  in  Lady  Allonby's  rilla  at  Tunbridge 
Wells. 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS 
PROEM:— To  be  Filed  for  Reference  Hereafter 

LADY  ALLONBY  followed  in  all  respects  the 
Vicar's  instructions ;  and  midnight  found  her  upon 
the  pier  of  Bishops  Onslow,  Colonel  Denstroude's 
big  and  dilapidated  country-residence.  Frank  Orts  had 
assisted  her  from  the  rowboat  without  speaking;  indeed, 
he  had  uttered  scarcely  a  word,  save  to  issue  some  neces 
sary  direction,  since  the  woman  first  came  to  him  at  the 
Vicarage  with  her  news  of  the  night's  events.  Now  he 
composedly  stepped  back  into  the  boat. 

"You've  only  to  go  forward,"  said  Frank  Orts.  "I 
regret  that  for  my  own  part  I'm  no  longer  an  acceptable 
visitor  here,  since  the  Colonel  and  I  fought  last  summer 
over  one  Molly  Yates.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  put  up  your 
purse,  my  Lady." 

"Then  I  can  but  render  you  my  heartfelt  thanks,"  re 
plied  Lady  Allonby,  "and  incessantly  remember  you  in 
daily  prayers  for  the  two  gallant  men  who  have  this  night 
saved  a  woman  from  great  misery.  Yet  there  is  that  in 
your  voice  which  is  curiously  familiar,  Mr.  Orts,  and  I 
think  that  somewhere  you  and  I  have  met  before  this." 

"Ay,"  he  responded,  "you  have  squandered  many  a 
shilling  on  me  here  in  England,  where  Francis  Vanring- 
ham  bellows  and  makes  faces  with  the  rest  of  the  Globe 
Company.  On  Usk,  you  understand,  I'm  still  Frank 
Orts,  just  as  I  was  christened;  but  elsewhere  the  name 

39 


40  GALLANTRY 


of  Vanringham  was  long  ago  esteemed  more  apt  to  em 
bellish  and  adorn  the  bill  of  a  heroic  play.  Ay,  you've 
been  pleased  to  applaud  my  grimaces  behind  the  foot 
lights,  more  than  once;  your  mother-in-law,  indeed,  the 
revered  Marchioness-Dowager  of  Falmouth,  is  among 
my  staunchest  patrons." 

"Heavens!  then  we  shall  all  again  see  one  another  at 
Tunbridge!"  said  Lady  Allonby,  who  was  recovering  her 
spirits;  "and  I  shall  have  a  Heaven-sent  opportunity  to 
confirm  my  protestations  that  I  am  not  ungrateful.  Mr. 
Vanringham,  I  explicitly  command  you  to  open  in  The 
Orphan,  since  as  Castalio  in  that  piece  you  are  the  most 
elegant  and  moving  thing  in  the  universal  world."  x 

"Your  command  shall  be  obeyed,"  said  the  actor. 
"And  meantime,  my  Lady,  I  bid  you  an  au  revoir,  with 
many  millions  of  regrets  for  the  inconveniences  to  which 
you've  been  subjected  this  evening.  Oho,  we  are  lament 
ably  rustic  hereabout." 

And  afterward  as  he  rowed  through  the  dark  the  man 
gave  a  grunt  of  dissatisfaction. 

"I  was  too  abrupt  with  her.  But  it  vexes  me  to  have 
Brother  Simon  butchered  like  this.  .  .  .  These  natural 
instincts  are  damnably  inconvenient, — and  expensive,  at 
times,  Mr.  Vanringham, — beside  being  ruinous  to  one's 
sense  of  humor,  Mr.  Vanringham.  Why,  to  think  that 
she  alone  should  go  scot-free !  and  of  her  ordering  a  stage- 
box  within  the  hour  of  two  men's  destruction  on  her  ac- 

1This  was  the  opinion  of  others  as  well.  Thorsby  (Roscius 
Anglicanus)  says,  "Mr.  Vanringham  was  good  in  tragedy,  as  well 
as  in  comedy,  especially  as  Castalio  in  Otway's  Orphan,  and  the 
more  famous  Gar  rick  came,  in  that  part,  far  short  of  him." 
Vanringham  was  also  noted  for  his  Valentine  in  Love  for  Love 
and  for  his  Beaugard  in  The  Soldier's  Fortune. 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  41 

count!  Upon  reflection,  I  admire  the  woman  to  the 
very  tips  of  my  toes.  Eh,  well !  I  trust  to  have  need  of 
her  gratitude  before  the  month  is  up." 


Since  Colonel  Denstroude  proved  a  profane  and  dis 
solute  and  helpful  person,  Lady  Allonby  was  shortly  re 
established  in  her  villa  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  on  the  Sussex 
side,  where  she  had  resolved  to  find  a  breathing-space 
prior  to  the  full  season  in  London.  And  thereupon  she 
put  all  thoughts  of  Usk  quite  out  of  her  mind :  it  had  been 
an  unhappy  business,  but  it  was  over.  In  the  meanwhile 
her  wardrobe  needed  replenishing  now  that  spring  was 
coming  in;  the  company  at  the  Wells  was  gay  enough; 
and  Lady  Allonby  had  always  sedulously  avoided  any 
thing  that  was  disagreeable. 

Mr.  Erwyn  Lady  Allonby  was  far  from  cataloguing 
under  that  head.  Mr.  George  Erwyn  had  been  for  years 
a  major-general,  at  the  very  least,  in  Fashion's  army, 
and  was  concededly  a  connoisseur  of  all  the  elegancies. 

Mr.  Erwyn  sighed  as  he  ended  his  recital — half  for  pity 
of  the  misguided  folk  who  had  afforded  Tunbridge  its 
latest  scandal,  half  for  relief  that,  in  spite  of  many  diffi 
culties,  the  story  had  been  set  forth  in  discreet  language 
which  veiled,  without  at  all  causing  you  to  miss,  the  more 
unsavory  details. 

"And  so,"  said  he,  "poor  Harry  is  run  through  the 
lungs,  and  Mrs.  Anstruther  has  recovered  her  shape  and 
is  to  be  allowed  a  separate  maintenance." 

"Tis  shocking!"  said  Lady  Allonby. 

"  Tis  incredible,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "to  my  mind,  at 


42  GALLANTRY 


least,  that  the  bonds  of  matrimony  should  be  slipped  thus 
lightly.  But  the  age  is  somewhat  lax  and  the  world  now 
views  with  complaisance  the  mad  antics  of  half-grown 
lads  and  wenches  who  trip  toward  the  altar  as  carelessly 
as  if  the  partnership  were  for  a  country-dance." 

Lady  Allonby  stirred  her  tea  and  said  nothing.  Noto 
riously  her  marriage  had  been  unhappy;  and  her  two 
years  of  widowhood  (dating  from  the  unlamented 
seizure,  brought  on  by  an  inherited  tendency  to  apoplexy 
and  French  brandy,  which  carried  off  Lord  Stephen 
Allonby  of  Prestoriwoode)  had  to  all  appearance  never 
tempered  her  distrust  of  the  matrimonial  state.  Cer 
tain  it  was  that  she  had  refused  many  advantageous 
offers  during  this  period,  for  her  jointure  was  consider 
able,  and,  though  in  candid  moments  she  confessed  to 
thirty-three,  her  dearest  friends  could  not  question  Lady 
Allonby's  good  looks.  She  was  used  to  say  that  she 
would  never  re-marry,  because  she  desired  to  devote  her 
self  to  her  step-daughter,  but,  as  gossip  had  it  at  Tun- 
bridge,  she  was  soon  to  be  deprived  of  this  subterfuge; 
for  Miss  Allonby  had  reached  her  twentieth  year,  and 
was  nowadays  rarely  seen  in  public  save  in  the  company 
of  Mr.  Erwyn,  who,  it  was  generally  conceded,  stood  high 
in  the  girl's  favor  and  was  desirous  of  rounding  off  his 
career  as  a  leader  of  fashion  with  the  approved  comcedic 
denouement  of  marriage  with  a  young  heiress. 

For  these  reasons  Lady  Allonby  heard  with  interest 
his  feeling  allusion  to  the  laxity  of  the  age,  and  through 
a  moment  pondered  thereon,  for  it  seemed  now  tolerably 
apparent  that  Mr.  Erwyn  had  lingered,  after  the  depar 
ture  of  her  other  guests,  in  order  to  make  a  disclosure 
which  Tunbridge  had  for  many  months  expected. 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  43 

"I  had  not  thought/'  said  she,  at  length,  "that  you, 
of  all  men,  would  ever  cast  a  serious  eye  toward  mar 
riage.  Indeed,  Mr.  Erwyn,  you  have  loved  women  so 
long  that  I  must  dispute  your  ability  to  love  a  woman 
— and  your  amours  have  been  a  byword  these  twenty 
years." 

"Dear  lady,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "surely  you  would  not 
confound  amour  with  love?  Believe  me,  the  translation 
is  inadequate.  Amour  is  but  the  summer  wave  that  lifts 
and  glitters  and  laughs  in  the  sunlight,  and  within  the 
instant  disappears;  but  love  is  the  unfathomed  eternal 
sea  itself.  Or — to  shift  the  metaphor — Amour  is  a  gen 
eral  under  whom  youth  must  serve :  Curiosity  and  Lusti 
ness  are  his  recruiting  officers,  and  it  is  well  to  fight  under 
his  colors,  for  it  is  against  Ennui  that  he  marshals  his 
forces.  Tis  a  resplendent  conflict,  and  young  blood 
cannot  but  stir  and  exult  as  paradoxes,  marching  and 
countermarching  at  the  command  of  their  gay  general 
issimo,  make  way  for  one  another  in  iridescent  squadrons, 
while  through  the  steady  musketry  of  epigram  one  hears 
the  clash  of  contending  repartees,  or  the  cry  of  a  wailing 
sonnet.  But  this  lord  of  laughter  may  be  served  by 
the  young  alone ;  and  by  and  by  each  veteran — scarred,  it 
may  be,  but  not  maimed,  dear  lady — is  well  content  to 
relinquish  the  glory  and  adventure  of  such  colorful  cam 
paigns  for  some  quiet  inglenook,  where,  with  love  to 
make  a  third,  he  prattles  of  past  days  and  deeds  with  one 
that  goes  hand  in  hand  with  him  toward  the  tomb." 

Lady  Allonby  accorded  this  conceit  the  tribute  of  a 
sigh;  then  glanced  in  the  direction  of  four  impassive 
footmen  to  make  sure  they  were  out  of  earshot. 

"And  so—?"  said  she.  ' 


44  GALLANTRY 


"Split  me!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  thought  you  had  noted 
it  long  ago." 

"Indeed,"  she  observed,  reflectively,  "I  suppose  it  is 
quite  time." 

"I  am  not,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "in  the  heyday  of  my 
youth,  I  grant  you ;  but  I  am  not  for  that  reason  neces 
sarily  unmoved  by  the  attractions  of  an  advantageous 
person,  a  fine  sensibility  and  all  the  graces." 

He  sipped  his  tea  with  an  air  of  resentment;  and 
Lady  Allonby,  in  view  of  the  disparity  of  age  which  ex 
isted  between  Mr.  Erwyn  and  her  step-daughter,  had 
cause  to  feel  that  she  had  blundered  into  gaucherie;  and 
to  await  with  contrition  the  proposal  for  her  step 
daughter's  hand  that  the  man  was  (at  last)  about  to 
broach  to  her,  as  the  head  of  the  family. 

"Who  is  she  ?"  said  Lady  Allonby,  all  friendly  interest. 

"An  angel,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  fencing. 

"Beware,"  Lady  Allonby  exhorted,  "lest  she  prove  a 
recording  angel ;  a  wife  who  takes  too  deep  an  interest  in 
your  movements  will  scarcely  suit  you." 

"Oh,  I  am  assured,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  smiling,  "that  on 
Saturdays  she  will  allow  me  the  customary  half -holiday." 

Lady  Allonby,  rebuffed,  sought  consolation  among  the 
conserves. 

"Yet,  as  postscript,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  do  not  desire 
a  wife  who  will  take  her  morning  chocolate  with  me  and 
sup  with  Heaven  knows  whom.  I  have  seen  too  much  of 
mariage  a  la  mode,  and  I  come  to  her,  if  not  with  the 
transports  of  an  Amadis,  at  least  with  an  entire  affection 
and  respect." 

'Then,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "you  love  this  woman?" 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  45 

"Very  tenderly,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn;  "and,  indeed,  I 
would,  for  her  sake,  that  the  errors  of  my  past  life  were 
not  so  numerous,  nor  the  frailty  of  my  aspiring  resolu 
tions  rendered  apparent — ah,  so  many  times! — to  a  gap 
ing  and  censorious  world.  For,  as  you  are  aware,  I 
cannot  offer  her  an  untried  heart;  'tis  somewhat  worn 
by  many  barterings.  But  I  know  that  this  heart  beats 
with  accentuation  in  her  presence;  and  when  I  come  to 
her  some  day  and  clasp  her  in  my  arms,  as  I  aspire  to  do, 
I  trust  that  her  lips  may  not  turn  away  from  mine  and 
that  she  may  be  more  glad  because  I  am  so  near  and 
that  her  stainless  heart  may  sound  an  echoing  chime. 
For,  with  a  great  and  troubled  adoration,  I  love  her  as  I 
have  loved  no  other  woman ;  and  this  much,  I  submit,  you 
cannot  doubt." 

"I?"  said  Lady  Allonby,  with  extreme  innocence. 
"La,  how  should  I  know?" 

"Unless  you  are  blind,"  Mr.  Erwyn  observed — "and  I 
apprehend  those  spacious  shining  eyes  to  be  more  keen 
than  the  tongue  of  a  dowager, — you  must  have  seen  of 
late  that  I  have  presumed  to  hope — to  think — that  she 
whom  I  love  so  tenderly  might  deign  to  be  the  affectionate, 
the  condescending  friend  who  would  assist  me  to  retrieve 
the  indiscretions  of  my  youth — " 

The  confusion  of  his  utterance,  his  approach  to  posi 
tive  agitation  as  he  waved  his  teaspoon,  moved  Lady 
Allonby.  "It  is  true,"  she  said,  "that  I  have  not  been 
wholly  blind—" 

"Anastasia,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  with  yet  more  feeling, 
"is  not  our  friendship  of  an  age  to  justify  sincerity  ?" 

"Oh,  bless  me,  you  toad !  but  let  us  not  talk  of  things 


46  GALLANTRY 


that  happened  under  the  Tudors.  Well,  I  have  not  been 
unreasonably  blind, — and  I  do  not  object, — and  I  do  not 
believe  that  Dorothy  will  prove  obdurate." 

"You  render  me  the  happiest  of  men,"  Mr.  Erwyn 
stated,  rapturously.  "You  have,  then,  already  discussed 
this  matter  with  Miss  Allonby  ?" 

"Not  precisely,"  said  she,  laughing;  "since  I  had 
thought  it  apparent  to  the  most  timid  lover  that  the  first 
announcement  came  with  best  grace  from  him." 

"O*  my  conscience,  then,  I  shall  be  a  veritable  Demos 
thenes,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  laughing  likewise:  "and  in 
4  common  decency  she  will  consent." 

"Your  conceit,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "is  appalling." 

"  Tis  beyond  conception,"  Mr.  Erwyn  admitted ;  "and 
I  propose  to  try  marriage  as  a  remedy.  I  have  heard  that 
nothing  so  takes  down  a  man." 

"Impertinent!"  cried  Lady  Allonby:  "now  of  what 
ever  can  the  creature  be  talking!" 

"I  mean  that,  as  your  widowship  well  knows,  marrying 
puts  a  man  in  his  proper  place.  And  that  the  outcome 
is  salutary  for  proud,  puffed-up  fellows  I  would  be  the 
last  to  dispute.  Indeed,  I  incline  to  dispute  nothing,  for  I 
find  that  perfect  felicity  is  more  potent  than  wine.  I  am 
now  all  pastoral  raptures,  and  were  it  not  for  the  foot 
men  there,  I  do  not  know  to  what  lengths  I  might  go." 

"In  that  event,"  Lady  Allonby  decided,  "I  shall  fetch 
Dorothy,  that  the  crown  may  be  set  upon  your  well- 
being.  And  previously  I  will  dismiss  the  footmen."  She 
did  so  with  a  sign  toward  those  lordly  beings. 

"Believe  me,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "  'tis  what  I  have  long 
wished  for.  And  when  Miss  Allonby  honors  me  with  her 
attention  I  shall,  since  my  life's  happiness  depends  upon 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  47 

the  issue,  plead  with  all  the  eloquence  of  a  starveling 
barrister,  big  with  the  import  of  his  first  case.  May  I, 
indeed,  rest  assured  that  any  triumph  over  her  possible 
objections  may  be  viewed  with  not  unfavorable  eyes?" 

"O  sir,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "believe  me,  there  is 
nothing  I  more  earnestly  desire  than  that  you  may  obtain 
all  which  is  necessary  for  your  welfare.  I  will  fetch 
Dorothy." 

The  largest  footman  but  one  removed  Mr.  Erwyn's 
cup. 

II 

Mr.  Erwyn,  left  alone,  smiled  at  his  own  reflection  in 
the  mirror ;  rearranged  his  ruffles  with  a  deft  and  shapely 
hand;  consulted  his  watch;  made  sure  that  the  padding 
which  enhanced  the  calves  of  his  most  notable  legs  was 
all  as  it  should  be;  seated  himself  and  hummed  a  merry 
air,  in  meditative  wise ;  and  was  in  such  posture  when  the 
crimson  hangings  that  shielded  the  hall-door  quivered 
and  broke  into  tumultuous  waves  and  yielded  up  Miss 
Dorothy  Allonby. 

Being  an  heiress,  Miss  Allonby  was  by  an  ancient  cus 
tom  brevetted  a  great  beauty;  and  it  is  equitable  to  add 
that  the  sourest  misogynist  could  hardly  have  refused, 
pointblank,  to  countersign  the  commission.  They  said  of 
Dorothy  Allonby  that  her  eyes  were  as  large  as  her  bank 
account,  and  nearly  as  formidable  as  her  tongue ;  and  it 
is  undeniable  that  on  provocation  there  was  in  her  speech 
a  tang  of  acidity,  such  (let  us  say)  as  renders  a  salad 
none  the  less  palatable.  In  a  word,  Miss  Allonby  pitied 
the  limitations  of  masculine  humanity  more  readily  than 


48  GALLANTRY 


its  amorous  pangs,  and  cuddled  her  women  friends  as  she 
did  kittens,  with  a  wary  and  candid  apprehension  of 
their  power  to  scratch;  and  decision  was  her  key-note; 
continually  she  knew  to  the  quarter-width  of  a  cobweb 
what  she  wanted,  and  invariably  she  got  it. 

Such  was  the  person  who,  with  a  habitual  emphasis 
which  dowagers  found  hoydenish  and  all  young  men 
adorable,  demanded  without  prelude : 

"Heavens !  What  can  it  be,  Mr.  Erwyn,  that  has  cast 
Mother  into  this  unprecedented  state  of  excitement?" 

"What,  indeed?"  said  he,  and  bowed  above  her  prof 
fered  hand. 

"For  like  a  hurricane,  she  burst  into  my  room  and 
cried,  'Mr.  Erwyn  has  something  of  importance  to  de 
clare  to  you — why  did  you  put  on  that  gown  ? — bless  you, 
my  child — '  all  in  one  eager  breath ;  then  kissed  me,  and 
powdered  my  nose,  and  despatched  me  to  you  without 
any  explanation.  And  why?"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"Why,  indeed?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"It  is  very  annoying,"  said  she,  decisively. 

"Sending  you  to  me?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  a  magnitude 
of  reproach  in  his  voice. 

"That,"  said  Miss  Allonby,  "I  can  pardon — and  easily. 
But  I  dislike  all  mysteries,  and  being  termed  a  child, 
and  being — " 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

" — and  being  powdered  on  the  nose,"  said  Miss  Allonby, 
with  firmness.  She  went  to  the  mirror,  and,  standing  on 
the  tips  of  her  toes,  peered  anxiously  into  its  depths. 
She  rubbed  her  nose,  as  if  in  disapproval,  and  frowned, 
perhaps  involuntarily  pursing  up  her  lips, — which  Mr. 
Erwyn  intently  regarded,  and  then  wandered  to  the  ex- 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  49 

treme  end  of  the  apartment,  where  he  evinced  a  sudden 
interest  in  bric-a-brac. 

"Is  there  any  powder  on  my  nose  ?"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"I  fail  to  perceive  any,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Come  closer,"  said  she. 

"I  dare  not/'  said  he. 

Miss  Allonby  wheeled  about.  "Fie!"  she  cried;  "one 
who  has  served  against  the  French,1  and  afraid  of  pow 
der!" 

"It  is  not  the  powder  that  I  fear." 

"What,  then?"  said  she,  in  sinking  to  the  divan  beside 
the  disordered  tea-table. 

"There  are  two  of  them,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "and  they 
are  so  red — " 

"Nonsense !"  cried  Miss  Allonby,  with  heightened  color. 

"  Tis  best  to  avoid  temptation,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn, 
virtuously. 

"Undoubtedly,"  she  assented,  "it  is  best  to  avoid  hav 
ing  your  ears  boxed." 

Mr.  Erwyn  sighed  as  if  in  the  relinquishment  of  an 
empire.  Miss  Allonby  moved  to  the  farther  end  of  the 
divan. 

"What  was  it,"  she  demanded,  "that  you  had  to  tell 
me?" 

"  Tis  a  matter  of  some  importance — "  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Heavens!"  said  Miss  Allonby,  and  absent-mindedly 
drew  aside  her  skirts;  "one  would  think  you  about  to 
make  a  declaration." 

1  This  was  not  absolutely  so.  Mr.  Erwyn  had,  however,  in  an 
outburst  of  patriotism,  embarked,  as  a  sort  of  cabin  passenger, 
with  his  friend  Sir  John  Morris,  and  possessed  in  consequence 
some  claim  to  share  such  honor  as  was  won  by  the  glorious 
fiasco  of  Dungeness. 


50  GALLANTRY 


Mr.  Erwyn  sat  down  beside  her.  "I  have  been  known," 
said  he,  "to  do  such  things." 

The  divan  was  strewn  with  cushions  in  the  Oriental 
fashion.  Miss  Allonby,  with  some  adroitness,  slipped 
one  of  them  between  her  person  and  the  locality  of  her 
neighbor.  "Oh!"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  smiling  over  the  dragon-embroidered 
barrier ;  "I  admit  that  I  am  even  now  shuddering  upon 
the  verge  of  matrimony." 

"Indeed!"  she  marvelled,  secure  in  her  fortress. 
"Have  you  selected  an  accomplice?"  . 

"Split  me,  yes !"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"And  have  I  the  honor  of  her  acquaintance  ?"  said  Miss 
Allonby. 

"Provoking !"  said  Mr.  Erwyn ;  "no  woman  knows  her 
better." 

Miss  Allonby  smiled.  "Dear  Mr.  Erwyn,"  she  stated, 
"this  is  a  disclosure  I  have  looked  for  these  six  months." 

"Split  me !"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Heavens,  yes!"  said  she.  "You  have  been  a  rather 
dilatory  lover — " 

"I  am  inexpressibly  grieved,  that  I  should  have  kept 
you  waiting — " 

" — and  in  fact,  I  had  frequently  thought  of  reproach 
ing  you  for  your  tardiness — " 

"Nay,  in  that  case,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "the  matter 
could,  no  doubt,  have  been  more  expeditiously  arranged." 

" — since  your  intentions  have  been  quite  apparent." 

Mr.  Erwyn  removed  the  cushion.  "You  do  not,  then, 
disapprove,"  said  he,  "of  my  intentions?" 

"Indeed,  no,"  said  Miss  Allonby;  "I  think  you  will 
make  an  excellent  step-father." 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  51 

The  cushion  fell  to  the  floor.  Mr.  Erwyn  replaced  it 
and  smiled. 

"And  so,"  Miss  Allonby  continued,  "Mother,  believing 
me  in  ignorance,  has  deputed  you  to  inform  me  of  this 
most  transparent  secret?  How  strange  is  the  blindness 
of  lovers!  But  I  suppose,"  sighed  Miss  Allonby,  "we 
are  all  much  alike." 

"We?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  softly. 

"I  meant — "  said-  Miss  Allonby,  flushing  somewhat. 

"Yes?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn.  His  voice  sank  to  a  pleading 
cadence.  "Dear  child,  am,  I  not  worthy  of  trust  ?" 

There  was  a  microscopic  pause. 

"I  am  going  to  the  Pantiles  this  afternoon,"  declared 
Miss  Allonby,  at  length,  "to  feed  the  swans." 

"Ah,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  and  with  comprehension; 
"surely,  he,  too,  is  rather  tardy." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "then  you  know?" 

"I  know,"  he  announced,  "that  there  is  a  tasteful 
and  secluded  summer-house  near  the  Fountain  of  Nep 
tune." 

"I  was  never  allowed,"  said  Miss  Allonby,  unconvinc- 
ingly,  "to  go  into  secluded  summer-houses  with  any  one ; 
and,  besides,  the  gardeners  keep  their  beer  jugs  there — 
under  the  biggest  bench." 

Mr.  Erwyn  beamed  upon  her  paternally.  "I  was  not, 
till  this,  aware,"  said  he,  "that  Captain  Audaine  was  so 
much  interested  in  ornithology.  Yet  what  if,  even  when 
he  is  seated  upon  that  biggest  bench,  your  Captain  does 
not  utterly  lose  the  head  he  is  contributing  to  the  tete- 
a-tete?" 

"Oh,  but  he  will,"  said  Miss  Allonby,  with  confidence ; 
then  she  reflectively  added:  "I  shall  have  again  to  be 


52  GALLANTRY 


painfully  surprised  by  his  declaration,  for,  after  all,  it 
will  only  be  his  seventh." 

"Doubtless,"  Mr.  Erwyn  considered,  "your  astonish 
ment  will  be  extreme  when  you  rebuke  him,  there  above 
hortensial  beer  jugs — " 

"And  I  shall  be  deeply  grieved  that  he  has  so  utterly 
misunderstood  my  friendly  interest  in  his  welfare;  and 
I  shall  be  highly  indignant  after  he  has — in  effect,  after 
he  has—" 

"But  not  until  afterward?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  holding 
up  a  forefinger.  "Well,  I  have  told  you  their  redness  is 
fatal  to  good  resolutions." 

" — after  he  has  astounded  me  by  his  seventh  avowal. 
And  I  shall  behave  in  precisely  the  same  manner  the 
eighth  time  he  recurs  to  the  repugnant  subject." 

"But  the  ninth  time?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"He  has  remarkably  expressive  eyes,"  Miss  Allonby 
stated,  "and  really,  Mr.  Erwyn,  it  is  the  most  lovable 
creature  when  it  raves  about  my  flint-heartedness  and 
cutting  its  poor  throat  and  murdering  every  man  I  ever 
nodded  to !" 

"Ah,  youth,  youth!"  sighed  Mr.  Erwyn.  "Dear  child, 
I  pray  you,  do  not  trifle  with  the  happiness  that  is  within 
your  grasp!  Si  jeunesse  savait — the  proverb  is  some 
what  musty.  But  we  who  have  attained  the  St.  Martin's 
summer  of  our  lives  and  have  grown  capable  of  but  a 
calm  and  tempered  affection  at  the  utmost — we  cannot 
but  look  wistfully  upon  the  raptures  and  ignorance  of 
youth,  and  we  would  warn  you,  were  it  possible,  of  the 
many  dangers  whereby  you  are  encompassed.  For  Love 
is  a  deity  that  must  not  be  trifled  with;  his  voice  may 
chaunt  the  requiem  of  all  which  is  bravest  in  our 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  S3 

mingled  natures,  or  sound  a  stave  of  such  nobility  as 
heartens  us  through  life.  He  is  kindly,  but  implacable; 
beneficent,  a  bestower  of  all  gifts  upon  the  faithful,  a  be- 
stower  of  very  terrible  gifts  upon  those  that  flout  him; 
and  I  who  speak  to  you  have  seen  my  own  contentment 
blighted,  by  just  such  flippant  jesting  with  Love's  omnipo 
tence,  before  the  edge  of  my  first  razor  had  been  dulled. 
Tis  true,  I  have  lived  since  in  indifferent  comfort;  yet 
it  is  but  a  dreary  banquet  where  there  is  no  platter  laid 
for  Love,  and  within  the  chambers  of  my  heart — dust- 
gathering  now,  my  dear ! — he  has  gone  unfed  these  fifteen 
years  or  more." 

"Ah,  goodness!"  sighed  Miss  Allonby,  touched  by  the 
ardor  of  his  speech.  "And  so,  you  have  loved  Mother 
all  of  fifteen  years?" 

"Nay,  split  me — !"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Your  servant,  sir,"  said  the  voice  of  Lady  Allonby; 
"I  trust  you  young  people  have  adjusted  matters  to  your 
satisfaction?" 


Ill 


"Dear  madam,"  cried  Miss  Allonby,  "I  am  overjoyed !" 
then  kissed  her  step-mother  vigorously  and  left  the  room, 
casting  in  passage  an  arch  glance  at  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"O  vulgarity!"  said  Lady  Allonby,  recovering  her 
somewhat  rumpled  dignity,  "the  sweet  child  is  yet  un 
polished.  But,  I  suppose,  we  may  regard  the  matter 
as  settled?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  think,  dear  lady,  we  may 
with  safety  regard  the  matter  as  settled." 

"Dorothy  is  of  an  excitable  nature,"  she  observed,  and 


54  GALLANTRY 


seated  herself  upon  the  divan ;  "and  you,  dear  Mr.  Erwyn, 
who  know  women  so  thoroughly,  will  overlook  the  agita 
tion  of  an  artless  girl  placed  in  quite  unaccustomed  cir 
cumstances.  Nay,  I  myself  was  affected  by  my  first 
declaration." 

"Doubtless,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  and  sank  beside  her, 
"Lord  Stephen  was  very  moving." 

"I  can  assure  you,"  said  she,  smiling,  "that  he  was  not 
the  first." 

"F  gad,"  said  he,  "I  remember  perfectly,  in  the  old 
days,  when  you  were  betrothed  to  that  black-visaged 
young  parson — " 

"Well,  I  do  not  remember  anything  of  the  sort,"  Lady 
Allonby  stated ;  and  she  flushed. 

"You  wore  a  blue  gown,"  he  said. 

"Indeed?"  said  she. 

"And—" 

"La,  if  I  did,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "I  have  quite  for 
gotten  it,  and  it  is  now  your  manifest  duty  to  do  like 
wise." 

"Never  in  all  these  years,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  sighing, 
"have  I  been  able  to  forget  it." 

"I  was  but  a  girl,  and  'twas  natural  that  at  first  I  should 
be  mistaken  in  my  fancies,"  Lady  Allonby  told  him,  pre 
cisely  as  she  had  told  Simon  Orts :  "and  at  all  events,  there 
is  nothing  less  well-bred  than  a  good  memory.  I  would 
decline  to  remain  in  the  same  room  with  one  were  it  not 
that  Dorothy  has  deserted  you  in  this  strange  fashion. 
Whither,  pray,  has  she  gone?" 

Mr.  Erwyn  smiled.  "Her  tender  heart,"  said  Mr. 
Erwyn,  "is  affected  by  the  pathetic  and  moving  spectacle 
of  the  poor  hungry  swans,  pining  for  their  native  land 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  55 

and  made  a  raree-show  for  visitors  in  the  Pantiles;  and 
she  has  gone  to  stay  them  with  biscuits  and  to  comfort 
them  with  cakes." 

"Really!"  said  Lady  Allonby. 

"And,"  Mr.  Erwyn  continued,  "to  defend  her  from  the 
possible  ferocity  of  the  gold-fish,  Captain  Audaine  had 
obligingly  afforded  service  as  an  escort." 

"Oh,"  said  Lady  Allonby;  then  added,  "in  the  cir 
cumstances  she  might  permissibly  have  broken  the  en 
gagement." 

"But  there  is  no  engagement,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn — "as 
yet." 

"Indeed?"  said  she. 

"Harkee,"  said  he ;  "should  he  make  a  declaration  this 
afternoon  she  will  refuse  him." 

"Why,  but  of  course!"  Lady  Allonby  marveled. 

"And  the  eighth  time,"  said  he. 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  she;  "but  at  whatever  are  you 
hinting?" 

"Yet  the  ninth  time—" 

"Well,  what  is  it,  you  grinning  monster?" 

Mr.  Erwyn  allowed  himself  a  noiseless  chuckle. 
"After  the  ninth  time,"  Mr.  Erwyn  declared,  "there  will 
be  an  engagement." 

"Mr.  Erwyn !"  cried  Lady  Allonby,  with  widened  eyes, 
"I  had  understood  that  Dorothy  looked  favorably  upon 
your  suit." 

"Anastasia!"  cried  he;  and  then  his  finger-tips  lightly 
caressed  his  brow.  "  Tis  the  first  I  had  heard  of  it," 
said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"Surely—"  she  began. 

"Nay,  but  far  more  surely,"  said  he,  "in  consideration 


56  GALLANTRY 


of  the  fact  that,  not  a  half-hour  since,  you  deigned  to 
promise  me  your  hand  in  marriage — " 

"O  la  now !"  cried  Lady  Allonby ;  and,  recovering  her 
self,  smiled  courteously.  "  Tis  the  first  I  had  heard  of 
it,"  said  she. 

They  stared  at  each  other  in  wonderment.  Then  Lady 
Allonby  burst  into  laughter. 

"D'ye  mean — ?"  said  she. 

"Indeed/'  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "so  unintentional  was  I  of 
aspiring  to  Miss  Allonby's  affections  that  all  my  soul 
was  set  upon  possessing  the  heart  and  person  of  a  lady, 
in  my  humble  opinion,  far  more  desirable." 

"I  had  not  dreamed — "  she  commenced. 

"Behold,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  bitterly,  "how  rightly  is 
my  presumption  punished.  For  I,  with  a  fop's  audacity, 
had  thought  my  love  for  you  of  sufficient  moment  to  have 
been  long  since  observed ;  and,  strong  in  my  conceit,  had 
scorned  a  pleasing  declaration  made  up  of  faint  phrases 
and  whining  ballad-endings.  I  spoke  as  my  heart 
prompted  me ;  but  the  heart  has  proven  a  poor  counsellor, 
dear  lady,  and  now  am  I  rewarded.  For  you  had  not 
even  known  of  my  passion,  and  that  which  my  presump 
tion  had  taken  for  a  reciprocal  tenderness  proves  in  the 
ultimate  but  a  kindly  aspiration  to  further  my  union 
with  another." 

"D'ye  love  me,  toad?"  said  Lady  Allonby,  and  very 
softly. 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "I  have  loved  you  all  my 
life, — first  with  a  boyish  inclination  that  I  scarce  knew 
was  love,  and,  after  your  marriage  with  an  honorable 
man  had  severed  us,  as  I  thought,  irrevocably,  with  such 
love  as  an  ingenuous  person  may  bear  a  woman  whom 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  57 

both  circumstances  and  the  respect  in  which  he  holds  her 
have  placed  beyond  his  reach, — a  love  that  might  not  be 
spoken,  but  of  which  I  had  considered  you  could  never 
be  ignorant." 

"Mr.  Erwyn,"  said  she,  "at  least  I  have  not  been 
ignorant — " 

"They  had  each  one  of  them  some  feature  that  re 
minded  me  of  you.  That  was  the  truth  of  it,  a  truth  so 
patent  that  we  will  not  discuss  it.  Instead,  dear  madam, 
do  you  for  the  moment  grant  a  losing  gamester  the  right 
to  rail  at  adverse  fate!  for  I  shall  trouble  you  no  more. 
Since  your  widowhood  I  have  pursued  you  with  atten 
tions  which,  I  now  perceive,  must  at  many  times  have 
proven  distasteful.  But  my  adoration  had  blinded  me; 
and  I  shall  trouble  you  no  more.  I  have  been  too  serious, 
I  did  not  know  that  our  affair  was  but  a  comedy  of  the 
eternal  duel  between  man  and  woman;  nor  am  I  sorry, 
dear  opponent,  that  you  have  conquered.  For  how  valor- 
ously  you  fought !  Eh,  let  it  be  !  for  you  have  triumphed 
in  this  duel,  O  puissant  lady,  and  I  yield  the  victor — 
a  devoted  and,  it  may  be,  a  rather  heavy  heart;  and  I 
shall  trouble  you  no  more." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "you  are  aware  that 
once — " 

"Indeed,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn,  "  'twas  the  sand  on  which 
I  builded.  But  I  am  wiser  now,  and  I  perceive  that  the 
feeling  you  entertain  toward  me  is  but  the  pallid  shadow 
of  a  youthful  inclination.  I  shall  not  presume  upon  it. 
Oh,  I  am  somewhat  proud,  dear  Anastasia ;  I  have  freely 
given  you  my  heart,  such  as  it  is;  and  were  you  minded 
to  accept  it,  even  at  the  eleventh  hour,  through  friendship 
or  through  pity  only,  I  would  refuse.  For  my  love  of 


58  GALLANTRY 


you  has  been  the  one  pure  and  quite  unselfish  emotion 
of  my  life,  and  I  may  not  barter  it  for  an  affection  of 
lesser  magnitude  either  in  kind  or  in  degree.  And  so, 
farewell!" 

"Yet  hold,  dear  sir—"  said  Lady  Allonby.  "Lord,  but 
will  you  never  let  me  have  the  woman's  privilege  of 
talking!" 

"Nay,  but  I  am,  as  ever,  at  your  service," .  said  Mr. 
Erwyn,  and  he  paused  in  transit  for  the  door. 

" — since,  as  this  betokens — " 

"  Tis  a  tasteful  handkerchief,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn — "but 
somewhat  moist !" 

"And— my  eyes?" 

"Red,"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"I  have  been  weeping,  toad,  with  my  head  on  the  pin 
cushion,  and  the  maid  trying  to  tipsify  me  with  brandy." 

"Why?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"I  thought  you  were  to  marry  Dorothy." 

Mr.  Erwyn  resumed  his  seat.  "You  objected?"  he 
said. 

"I  think,  old  monster,"  Lady  Allonby  replied,  "that  I 
would  entertain  the  same  objection  to  seeing  any  woman 
thus  sacrificed — " 

"Well?"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

"—except—" 

"Incomparable  Anastasia!"  said  Mr.  Erwyn. 

IV 

Afterward  these  two  sat  long  in  the  twilight,  talking 
very  little,  and  with  their  eyes  rarely  meeting,  although 
their  hands  met  frequently  at  quite  irrelevant  intervals. 


LOVE  AT  MARTINMAS  59 

Just  the  graze  of  a  butterfly  to  make  it  certain  that  the 
other  was  there :  but  all  the  while  they  both  regarded  the 
tiny  fire  which  had  set  each  content  of  the  room  a-dancing 
in  the  companionable  darkness.  For  each,  I  take  it,  pre 
ferred  to  think  of  the  other  as  being  still  the  naive  young 
person  each  remembered ;  and  the  firelight  made  such 
thinking  easier. 

"D'ye  remember —  ?"  was  woven  like  a  refrain  through 
their  placid  duo  .... 

It  was,  one  estimates,  their  highest  hour.  Frivolous 
and  trivial  persons  you  might  have  called  them  and  have 
justified  the  accusation;  but  even  to  the  fop  and  the 
coquette  was  granted  an  hour  wherein  all  human  hap 
penings  seemed  to  be  ordered  by  supernal  wisdom  lov 
ingly.  Very  soon  they  would  forget  this  hour;  mean 
while  there  was  a  wonderful  sense  of  dreams  come  true. 


Ill 

THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON 
As  Played  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  April  i,  1750 

"But  this  is  the  most  cruel  thing,  to  marry  one  does 
not  know  how,  nor  why,  nor  wherefore. — Gad,  I  never 
liked  anybody  less  in  my  life.  Poor  woman! — Gad,  I'm 
sorry  for  her,  too;  for  I  have  no  reason  to  hate  her 
neither;  but  I  wish  we  could  keep  it  secret!  why,  I  don't 
believe  any  of  this  company  would  speak  of  it!' 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

CAPTAIN  AUDAINE,  of  a  pompous  and  handsome  person, 

and  loves  Miss  Allonby. 
LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE,  younger  son  to  the  Marquis  of 

Venour,  makes  love  to  Miss  Allonby. 
GERALD  ALLONBY,  brother  to  Miss  Allonby,  a  true  raw 

Squire. 

MR.  ERWYN,  betrothed  to  Lady  Allonby. 
VANRINGHAM,    an    impudent    tragedian    of    the    Globe 

Company. 
QUARMBY,  Vanringham's  associate. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  an  heiress,  of  a  petulant  humor,  in  love 

with  Audaine. 
MARCHIONESS   OF   FALMOUTH,   an   impertinent   affected 

dowager,  and  grandmother  to  Miss  Allonby. 
LADY  ALLONBY,  step-mother  to  Miss  Allonby  and  Gerald. 

POSTILIONS,  SERVANTS,  Etc. 

SCENE 

Tunbridge  Wells,  thence  shifting  to  Chetwode  Lodge,  Mr. 
Babington-Herle's  house,  on  Rusthall  Common, 
within  two  miles  of  the  town. 


62 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON 
PROEM: — Introductive  of  Captain  Francis  Audaine 

IT  appears  convenient  here  to  pursue  Miss  Allonby 
on  her  stroll  about  the  Pantiles  in  company  with 
Captain  Audaine.  The  latter  has  been  at  pains  to 
record  the  events  of  the  afternoon  and  evening,  so  that 
I  give  you  his  own  account  of  them,  though  I  abridge  in 
consideration  of  his  leisured  style.  Pompous  and  ver 
bose  I  grant  the  Captain,  even  in  curtailment ;  but  you  are 
to  remember  these  were  the  faults1  of  his  age,  ingrained 
and  defiant  of  deletion ;  and  should  you  elect  to  peruse  his 
memoirs  *  you  will  find  that  I  have  considerately  spared, 
you  a  majority  of  the  digressions  to  which  the  future 
Earl  of  Garendon  was  lamentably  addicted. 

For  the  purpose  of  my  tale  you  are  to  view  him  as  Tun- 
bridge  did  at  this  particular  time:  as  a  handsome  and 
formal  person,  twenty-eight  years  old  or  thereabouts,  of 
whom  nobody  knew  anything  quite  definite — beyond  the 
genealogic  inference  to  be  drawn  from  a  smatch  of  the 
brogue — save  that  after  a  correspondence  of  gallantries, 
of  some  three  weeks'  duration,  he  was  the  manifest  slave 
of  Miss  Dorothy  Allonby,  and  had  already  fought  three 

1  There  appears  to  have  been  no  American  edition  since  that, 
in  1836,  printed  in  Philadelphia,  "for  Thomas  Wardle,  No.  15 
Minor  Street."  In  England  the  memoirs  of  Lord  Garendon  are 
to  all  appearance  equally  hard  to  come  by,  and  seem  to  have  been 
out  of  print  since  1907. 

63 


64  GALLANTRY 


duels  behind  Ormerod  House, — with  Will  Pratchet,  Lord 
Humphrey  Degge,  and  Sir  Eugene  Harrable,  respectively, 
each  one  of  whom  was  a  declared  suitor  for  her  hand. 
And  with  this  prelude  I  begin  on  my  transcription. 


Miss  Allonby  (says  Captain  Audaine)  was  that  after 
noon  in  a  mighty  cruel  humor.  Though  I  had  omitted 
no  reasonable  method  to  convince  her  of  the  immensity 
of  my  passion,  'twas  without  the  twitch  of  an  eyelash 
she  endured  the  volley  of  my  sighs  and  the  fusillade  of 
my  respectful  protestations;  and  candor  compels  me  to 
admit  that  toward  the  end  her  silvery  laughter  disrupted 
the  periods  of  a  most  elegant  and  sensible  peroration. 
And  when  the  affair  was  concluded,  and  for  the  seventh 
time  I  had  implored  her  to  make  me  the  happiest  of  men, 
the  rogue  merely  observed :  "But  I  don't  want  to  marry 
you.  Why  on  earth  should  I?" 

"For  the  sake  of  peace,"  I  replied,  "and  in  self -protec 
tion,  since  as  long  as  you  stay  obdurate  I  shall  continue- 
to  importune,  and  by  and  by  I  shall  pester  you  to  death." 

"Indeed,  I  think  it  more  than  probable,"  she  returned ; 
"for  you  dog  me  like  a  bailiff.  I  am  cordially  a-weary, 
Captain  Audaine,  of  your  incessant  persecutions;  and, 
after  all,  marrying  you  is  perhaps  the  civilest  way  to  be 
rid  of  both  them  and  you." 

But  by  this  I  held  each  velvet-soft  and  tiny  hand. 
"Nay,"  I  dissented ;  "the  subject  is  somewhat  too  sacred 
for  jest.  I  am  no  modish  lover,  dearest  and  best  of 
creatures,  to  regard  marriage  as  the.  thrifty  purchase  of 
an  estate,  and  the  lady  as  so  much  bed- furniture  thrown 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  65 

in  with  the  mansion.  I  love  you  with  completeness :  and 
give  me  leave  to  assure  you,  madam,  with  a  freedom 
which  I  think  permissible  on  so  serious  an  occasion  that, 
even  as  beautiful  as  you  are,  I  could  never  be  contented 
with  your  person  without  your  heart." 

She  sat  with  eyes  downcast,  all  one  blush.  Miss 
Dorothy  Allonby  was  in  the  bloom  of  nineteen,  and  shone 
with  every  charm  peculiar  to  her  sex.  But  I  have  no 
mind  to  weary  you  with  poetical  rhodomontades  till,  as 
most  lovers  do,  I  have  proven  her  a  paragon  and  myself 
an  imbecile:  it  suffices  to  say  that  her  face,  and  shape, 
and  mien,  and  wit,  alike  astounded  and  engaged  all  those 
who  had  the  happiness  to  know  her;  and  had  long  ago 
rendered  her  the  object  of  my  entire  adoration  and  the 
target  of  my  daily  rhapsodies.  Now  I  viewed  her  with 
a  dissension  of  the  liveliest  hopes  and  fears ;  for  she  had 
hesitated,  and  had  by  this  hesitation  conceded  my  ad 
dresses  to  be  not  irretrievably  repugnant ;  and  within  the 
instant  I  knew  that  any  life  undevoted  to  her  service  and 
protection  could  be  but  a  lingering  disease. 

But  by  and  by,  "You  shall  have  your  answer  this  eve 
ning,"  she  said,  and  so  left  me. 

I  fathomed  the  meaning  of  "this  evening"  well  enough. 
For  my  adored  Dorothy  was  all  romance,  and  by  pref 
erence  granted  me  rendezvous  in  the  back  garden,  where 
she  would  tantalize  me  nightly,  from  her  balcony,  after 
the  example  of  the  Veronese  lady  in  Shakespeare's 
spirited  tragedy,  which  she  prodigiously  admired.  As 
concerns  myself,  a  reasonable  liking  for  romance  had  been 
of  late  somewhat  tempered  by  the  inclemency  of  the 
weather  and  the  obvious  unfriendliness  of  the  dog;  but 
there  is  no  resisting  a  lady's  commands ;  and  clear  or  foul, 


66  GALLANTRY 


you  might  at  any  twilight's  death  have  found  me  under 
her  window,  where  a  host  of  lyric  phrases  asserted  the 
devotion  which  a  cold  in  the  head  confirmed. 

This  night  was  black  as  a  coal-pit.  Strolling  beneath 
the  casement,  well  wrapt  in  my  cloak  (for  it  drizzled),  I 
meditated  impartially  upon  the  perfections  of  my  dear 
mistress  and  the  tyrannic  despotism  of  love.  Being  the 
source  of  our  existence,  'tis  not  unreasonably,  perhaps, 
that  this  passion  assumes  the  proprietorship  of  our 
destinies  and  exacts  of  all  mankind  a  common  tribute. 
To-night,  at  least,  I  viewed  the  world  as  a  brave  pavilion, 
lighted  by  the  stars  and  swept  by  the  clean  winds  of 
heaven,  wherein  we  enacted  varied  roles  with  God  as 
audience;  where,  in  turn,  we  strutted  or  cringed  about 
the  stage,  where,  in  turn,  we  were  beset  and  rent  by  an 
infinity  of  passions;  but  where  every  man  must  play  the 
part  of  lover.  That  passion  alone,  I  said,  is  universal ;  it 
set  wise  Solomon  a- jigging  in  criminal  byways,  and  sin 
ewy  Hercules  himself  was  no  stranger  to  its  inquietudes 
and  joys.  And  I  cried  aloud  with  the  Roman,  Parce 
precorf  and  afterward  upon  high  Heaven  to  make  me  a 
little  worthier  of  Dorothy. 

II 

Engrossed  in  meditations  such  as  these,  I  was  fetched 
earthward  by  the  clicking  of  a  lock,  and,  turning,  saw 
the  door  beneath  her  balcony  unclose  and  afford  egress 
to  a  slender  and  hooded  figure.  My  amazement  was  con 
siderable  and  my  felicity  beyond  rhetoric. 

"Dorothy—!"  I  whispered. 

"Come!"  was  her  response;  and  her  finger-tips  rested 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  67 

upon  my  arm  the  while  that  she  guided  me  toward  the 
gateway  opening  into  Jervis  Lane.  I  followed  with  a 
trepidation  you  may  not  easily  conceive;  nor  was  this 
diminished  when  I  found  awaiting  us  a  post-chaise,  into 
which  my  angel  hastily  tripped. 

I  babbled  I  know  not  what  inarticulate  nonsense.  But, 
"Heavens !"  she  retorted,  "d'ye  mean  to  keep  the  parson 
waiting  all  night?" 

This  was  her  answer,  then.  Well,  'twas  more  than  I 
could  have  hoped  for,  though  to  a  man  of  any  sensibility 
this  summary  disposal  of  our  love-affair  could  not  but 
vaguely  smack  of  the  distasteful.  Say  what  you  will, 
every  gentleman  has  about  him  somewhere  a  tincture  of 
that  venerable  and  artless  age  when  wives  were  taken 
by  capture  and  were  retained  by  force;  he  prefers  to 
have  the  lady  hold  off  until  the  very  last ;  and  properly, 
her  tongue  must  sound  defiance  long  after  melting  eyes 
have  signalled  that  the  traitorous  heart  of  her,  like  an 
anatomical  Tarpeia,  is  ready  to  betray  the  citadel  and 
yield  the  treasury  of  her  charms. 

Nevertheless,  I  stepped  into  the  vehicle.  The  postilion 
was  off  in  a  twinkling,  as  the  saying  is,  over  the  rough 
est  road  in  England.  Conversation  was  impossible,  for 
Dorothy  and  I  were  jostling  like  two  pills  in  a  box ;  and 
as  the  first  observation  I  attempted  resulted  in  a  badly 
bitten  tongue,  I  prudently  held  my  peace. 

This  endured  for,  perhaps,  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  at  the 
end  of  which  period  the  post-chaise  on  a  sudden  stopped, 
and  I  assisted  my  companion  to  alight.  Before  us  was  a 
villa  of  considerable  dimension,  and  situate,  so  far  as  I 
could  immediately  detect,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  and 
desolate  moor;  there  was  no  trace  of  human  habitation 


GALLANTRY 


within  the  radius  of  the  eye;  and  the  house  itself 
presented  not  a  glimpse  of  tenancy  or  illumination. 

"O  Lord,  madam — "  I  began. 

"Hasten!"  spoke  a  voice  from  within  the  Parsonage. 
And  Dorothy  drew  me  toward  a  side  door,  overhung 
with  ivy,  where,  sure  enough,  a  dim  light  burned.  'Twas 
but  a  solitary  candle  stuck  upon  a  dresser  at  the  remoter 
end  of  a  large  and  low-ceiled  apartment;  and  in  this 
flickering  obscurity  we  found  a  tremulous  parson  in  full 
canonicals,  who  had  united  our  hands  and  gabbled  half 
way  through  the  marriage  service  before  I  had  the 
slightest  notion  of  what  was  befalling  me. 

And  such  is  the  unreasonable  disposition  of  mankind 
that  the  attainment  of  my  most  ardent  desires  aroused  a 
feeling  not  altogether  unakin  to  irritation.  This  skulking 
celerity,  this  hole-and-corner  business,  I  thought,  was  in 
ill-accord  with  the  respect  due  to  a  sacrament;  and  I 
could  have  wished  my  marriage  to  have  borne  a  less 
striking  resemblance  to  the  conference  of  three  thieves 
in  a  cellar.  But  'twas  over  in  two  twos.  Within  scantier 
time  than  it  takes  to  tell  of  it,  Francis  and  Dorothy  were 
made  one,  and  I  had  turned  to  salute  my  wife. 

She  gave  a  shriek  of  intolerable  anguish.  "Heavens!" 
said  she,  "I  have  married  the  wrong  man!" 

Ill 

Without  delay  I  snatched  up  the  guttering  candle  and 
held  it  to  my  wife's  countenance.  You  can  conceive 
that  'twas  with  no  pleasurable  emotion  I  discovered  I  had 
inadvertently  espoused  the  Dowager  Marchioness  of 
Falmouth,  my  adored  Dorothy's  grandmother;  and  in 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  69 

frankness  I  can't  deny  that  the  lady  seemed  equally  dis 
satisfied  :  words  failed  us ;  and  the  newly  wedded  couple 
stared  at  each  other  in  silence. 

"Captain  Audaine,"  said  she,  at  last,  "the  situation  is 
awkward." 

"Sure,  madam,"  I  returned,  "and  that  is  the  precise 
thought  which  has  just  occurred  to  me." 

"And  I  am  of  the  opinion,"  she  continued,  "that  you 
owe  me  some  sort  of  explanation.  For  I  had  planned  to 
elope  with  Mr.  Vanringham — " 

"Do  I  understand  your  Ladyship  to  allude  to  Mr. 
Francis  Vanringham,  the  play-actor,  at  present  the  talk 
of  Tunbridge?" 

She  bowed  a  grave  response. 

"This  is  surprising  news,"  said  I.  "And  grant  me 
leave  to  tell  you  that  a  woman  of  mature  years,  possessed 
of  an  abundant  fortune  and  unassailable  gentility,  does 
not  by  ordinary  sneak  out  of  the  kitchen  door  to  meet  a 
raddle-faced  actor  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  Tis,  in 
deed,  a  circumstance  to  stagger  human  credulity.  Oh, 
believe  me,  madam,  for  a  virtuous  woman  the  back  garden 
is  not  a  fitting  approach  to  the  altar,  nor  is  a  comedian 
an  appropriate  companion  there  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
evening." 

"Hey,  my  fine  fellow,"  says  my  wife,  "and  what  were 
you  doing  in  the  back  garden?" 

"Among  all  true  lovers,"  I  returned,  "it  is  an  immemo 
rial  custom  to  prowl  like  sentinels  beneath  the  windows 
of  the  beauteous  adored.  And  I,  madam,  had  the 
temerity  to  aspire  toward  an  honorable  union  with  your 
granddaughter." 

She  wrung  her  withered  hands.     "That  any  reputable 


70  GALLANTRY 


woman  should  have  nocturnal  appointments  with  gentle 
men  in  the  back  garden,  and  beguile  her  own  grand 
mother  into  an  odious  marriage!  I  protest,  Captain 
Audaine,  the  degenerate  world  of  to-day  is  no  longer  a 
suitable  residence  for  a  lady!" 

"Look  you,  sir,  this  is  a  cruel  bad  business,"  the  Parson 
here  put  in.  He  was  pacing  the  apartment  in  an  alterca 
tion  of  dubiety  and  amaze.  "Mr.  Vanringham  will  be 
vexed." 

"You  will  pardon  me,"  I  retorted,  "if  I  lack  pity  to 
waste  upon  your  Mr.  Vanringham,  At  present  I  devote 
all  funds  of  compassion  to  my  own  affairs.  Am  I, 
indeed,  to  understand  that  this  lady  and  I  are  legally 
married  ?" 

He  rubbed  his  chin.  "By  the  Lord  Harry,"  says  he, 
"  'tis  a  case  that  lacks  precedents !  But  the  coincidence 
of  the  Christian  names  is  devilish  awkward;  the  service 
takes  no  cognizance  of  surnames;  and  I  have  merely 
united  a  Francis  and  a  Dorothy." 

"O  Lord,  Mr.  What-d'ye-call-um,"  said  I,  "then  there 
is  but  one  remedy  and  that  is  an  immediate  divorce." 

My  wife  shrieked.  "Have  you  no  sense  of  decency, 
Captain  Audaine?  Never  has  there  been  a  divorce  in 
my  family.  And  shall  I  be  the  first  to  drag  that  honored 
name  into  a  public  court, — to  have  my  reputation  worried 
at  the  bar  by  a  parcel  of  sniggering  lawyers,  while  the 
town  wits  buzz  about  it  like  flies  around  carrion  ?  I  pray 
you,  do  not  suggest  any  such  hideous  thing." 

"Here's  the  other  Francis,"  says  the  Parson,  at  this 
point.  And  it  was, — a  raffish,  handsome,  slender,  red- 
haired  fellow,  somewhat  suggestive  of  the  royal  duke,  yet 
rather  more  like  a  sneak-thief,  and  with  a  whiff  some- 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  71 

where  of  the  dancing-master.  At  first  glance  you  recog 
nized  in  the  actor  a  personage,  for  he  compelled  the  eye 
with  a  monstrous  vividness  of  color  and  gesture.  To 
night  he  had  missed  his  lady  at  their  rendezvous,  owing 
to  my  premature  appearance,  and  had  followed  us 
post-haste. 

"My  Castalio!"  she  screamed.  "My  Beaugard !"  *  She 
ran  to  him,  and  with  disjointed  talk  and  quavering  ut 
terance  disclosed  the  present  lamentable  posture  of 
affairs. 

And  I  found  the  tableau  they  presented  singular.  My 
wife  had  been  a  toast,  they  tell  me,  in  Queen  Anne's  time, 
and  even  now  the  lean  and  restless  gentlewoman  showed 
as  the  abandoned  house  of  youth  and  wit  and  beauty, 
with  here  and  there  a  trace  of  the  old  occupancy ;  always 
her  furtive  eyes  shone  with  a  cold  and  shifting  glitter, 
as  though  a  frightened  imp  peeped  through  a  mask  of 
Hecuba ;  and  in  every  movement  there  was  an  ineffable 
touch  of  something  loosely  hinged  and  fantastic.  In  a 
word,  the  Marchioness  was  not  unconscionably  sane,  and 
was  known  far  and  wide  as  a  gallant  woman  resolutely 
oblivious  to  the  batterings  of  time,  and  so  avid  of  flattery 
that  she  was  ready  to  smile  on  any  man  who  durst  give 
the  lie  to  her  looking-glass.  Demented  landlady  of  her 
heart,  she  would  sublet  that  antiquated  chamber  to  the 
first  adventurer  who  came  prepared  to  pay  his  scot  in 
the  false  coin  of  compliment;  and  'twas  not  difficult  to 

1 1  never  saw  the  rascal  act,  thank  Heaven,  since  in  that  event, 
report  assures  me,  I  might  conceivably  have  accredited  him  with 
the  possession  of  some  meritorious  qualities,  however  trivial ;  but, 
it  appears,  these  two  above-mentioned  roles  were  the  especial 
puppetry  in  which  Mr.  Vanringham  was  most  successful  in  wring 
ing  tears  and  laughter  from  the  injudicious. — F.  A. 


72  GALLANTRY 


comprehend  how  this  young  Thespian  had  acquired  its 
tenancy. 

But  now  the  face  of  Mr.  Vanringham  was  attenuated 
by  her  revelations,  and  the  wried  mouth  of  Mr.  Vanring 
ham  suggested  that  the  party  be  seated,  in  order  to  con 
sider  more  at  ease  the  unfortunate  contretemps.  Fresh 
lights  were  kindled,  as  one  and  all  were  past  fear  of  dis 
covery  by  this;  and  we  four  assembled  about  a  table 
which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 

IV 

"The  situation,"  Mr.  Vanringham,  began,  "may  reason 
ably  be  described  as  desperate.  Here  we  sit,  four  ruined 
beings.  For  Dr.  Quarmby  has  betrayed  an  unoffending 
couple  into  involuntary  matrimony,  an  act  of  which  his 
Bishop  can  scarcely  fail  to  take  official  notice;  Captain 
Audaine  and  the  Marchioness  are  entrapped  into  a  love 
less  marriage,  than  which  there  mayn't  be  a  greater 
misery  in  life;  and  my  own  future,  I  needn't  add,  is  ir 
revocably  blighted  by  the  loss  of  my  respected  Dorothy, 
without  whom  continued  animation  must  necessarily  be  a 
hideous  and  hollow  mockery.  Yet  there  occurs  to  me  a 
panacea  for  these  disasters." 

"Then,  indeed,  Mr.  Vanringham,"  said  I,  "there  is  one 
of  us  who  will  be  uncommonly  glad  to  know  the  name 
of  it." 

He  faced  me  with  a  kind  of  compassion  in  his  wide- 
set  brown  eyes.  "You,  sir,  have  caused  a  sweet  and 
innocent  lady  to  marry  you  against  her  will —  Oho,  be 
yond  doubt,  your  intentions  were  immaculate;  but  the 
outcome  remains  in  its  stark  enormity,  and  the  hand  of 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  73 

an  inquisitive  child  is  not  ordinarily  salved  by  its  previous 
ignorance  as  to  the  corrosive  properties  of  fire.  You 
have  betrayed  confiding  womanhood,  an  act  abhorrent  to 
all  notions  of  gentility.  There  is  but  one  conclusive 
proof  of  your  repentance. — Need  I  mention  that  I  allude 
to  self-destruction?" 

"O  Lord,  sir,"  I  observed,  "suicide  is  a  deadly  sin, 
and  I  would  not  willingly  insult  any  gentlewoman  by 
evincing  so  marked  a  desire  for  the  devil's  company*  in 
preference  to  hers." 

"Your  argument  is  sophistry,"  he  returned,  "since  'tis 
your  death  alone  that  can  endear  you  to  your  bride. 
Death  is  the  ultimate  and  skilled  assayer  of  alloyed  hu 
manity:  and  by  his  art  our  gross  constituents — our 
foibles,  our  pettinesses,  nay,  our  very  crimes — are  precipi 
tated  into  the  cofHn,  the  while  that  his  crucible  sets  free 
the  volatile  pure  essence,  and  shows  as  undefiled  by  all 
life's  accidents  that  part  of  divinity  which  harbors  in  the 
vilest  bosom.  This  only  is  remembered  :  this  only  mounts, 
like  an  ethereal  spirit,  to  hallow  the  finished-with 
blunderer's  renown,  and  reverently  to  enshrine  his  body's 
resting-place.  Ah,  no,  Captain  Audaine!  death  alone 
may  canonize  the  husband.  Once  you're  dead,  your  wife 
will  adore  you;  once  you're  dead,  your  wife  and  I  have 
before  us  an  open  road  to  connubial  felicity,  a  road  which, 
living,  you  sadly  encumber;  and  only  when  he  has  de 
livered  your  funeral  oration  may  Dr.  Quarmby  be  exempt 
from  apprehension  lest  his  part  in  your  marriage  cere 
mony  bring  about  his  defrockment.  I  urge  the  greatest 
good  for  the  greatest  number,  Captain ;  living,  you  plunge 
all  four  of  us  into  suffering;  whereas  the  nobility  of  an 
immediate  felo-de-se  will  in  common  decency  exalt  your 


74  GALLANTRY 


soul  to  Heaven  accompanied  and  endorsed  by  the  fervent 
prayers  of  three  grateful  hearts." 

"And  by  the  Lord  Harry,"  says  the  Parson;  "while  no 
clergyman  extant  has  a  more  cordial  aversion  to  suicide, 
I  cannot  understand  why  a  prolonged  existence  should 
tempt  you.  You  love  Miss  Dorothy  Allonby,  as  all  Tun- 
bridge  knows;  and  to  a  person  of  sensibility,  what  can 
be  more  awkward  than  to  have  thrust  upon  him  grand- 
f athership  of  the  adored  one  ?  You  must  in  this  position 
necessarily  be  exposed  to  the  committal  of  a  thousand 
gaucheries;  and  if  you  insist  upon  your  irreligious  pro 
ject  of  procuring  a  divorce,  what,  I  ask,  can  be  your 
standing  with  the  lady  ?  Can  she  smile  upon  the  suit  of 
an  individual  who  has  publicly  cast  aside  the  sworn  love 
and  obedience  of  the  being  to  whom  she  owes  her  very 
existence?  or  will  any  clergyman  in  England  participate 
in  the  union  of  a  woman  to  her  ex-grandfather?  Nay, 
believe  me,  sir,  'tis  less  the  selfishness  than  the  folly  of 
your  clinging  to  this  vale  of  tears  which  I  deplore.  And 
I  protest  that  this  rope" — he  fished  up  a  coil  from  the 
corner — "appears  to  have  been  deposited  here  by  a  benign 
and  all-seeing  Providence  to  suggest  the  manifold  ad 
vantages  of  hanging  yourself  as  compared  with  the  untidy 
operation  of  cutting  one's  throat." 

"And  conceive,  sir,"  says  my  wife,  "what  must  be  the 
universal  grief  for  the  bridegroom  so  untimelily  taken  off 
in  the  primal  crescence  of  his  honeymoon!  Your  funeral 
will  be  unparalleled  both  for  sympathy  and  splendor; 
all  Tunbridge  will  attend  in  tears ;  and  'twill  afford  me  a 
melancholy  but  sincere  pleasure  to  extend  to  you  the  hos 
pitality  of  the  Allonby  mausoleum,  which  many  connois- 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  75 

seurs  have  accounted  the  finest  in  the  three  kingdoms." 

"I  must  venture,"  said  I,  "to  terminate  this  very 
singular  conversation.  You  have,  one  and  all,  set  forth 
the  advantages  of  my  immediate  demise ;  your  logic  is  un 
assailable  and  has  proven  suicide  my  plain  duty ;  and  my 
rebuttal  is  confined  to  the  statement  that  I  will  see  every 
one  of  you  damned  before  I'll  do  it." 

Mr.  Francis  Vanringham  rose  with  a  little  bow.  "You 
have  insulted  both  womanhood  and  the  Established 
Church  by  the  spitting  out  of  that  ribald  oath;  and  me 
you  have  with  equal  levity  wronged  by  the  theft  of  my 
affianced  bride.  I  am  only  a  play-actor,  but  in  inflicting 
an  insult  a  gentleman  must  either  lift  his  inferior  to  his 
own  station  or  else  forfeit  his  gentility.  I  wear  a  sword, 
Captain  Auclaine.  Heyho,  will  you  grant  me  the  usual 
satisfaction?" 

"My  fascinating  comedian,"  said  I,  "if  'tis  a  fight  you 
are  desirous  of,  I  can  assure  you  that  in  my  present  state 
I  would  cross  swords  with  a  costermonger,  or  the  devil, 
or  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  with  equal  impartiality. 
But  scarcely  in  the  view  of  a  lady,  and,  therefore,  as  you 
boast  the  greater  influence  in  that  quarter,  will  you 
kindly  advise  the  withdrawal  of  yonder  unexpected  addi 
tion  to  my  family?" 

"There's  an  inner  room,"  says  he,  pointing  to  the  door 
behind  me;  and  I  held  it  open  as  my  wife  swept  through. 

"You  are  the  epitome  of  selfishness,"  she  flung  out,  in 
passing;  "for  had  you  possessed  an  ounce  of  gallantry, 
you  would  long  ago  have  freed  me  from  this  odious  mar 
riage." 

"Sure,  madam,"  I  returned,  with  a  congee;  "and  is  it 


76  GALLANTRY 


not  rather  a  compliment  that  I  so  willingly  forfeit  a 
superlunar  bliss  in  order  to  retain  the  pleasure  of  your 
society  ?" 

She  sniffed,  and  I  closed  the  door;  and  within  the 
moment  the  two  men  fell  upon  me,  from  the  rear,  and 
presently  had  me  trussed  like  a  fowl  and  bound  with  that 
abominable  Parson's  coil  of  rope. 


"Believe  me,"  says  Mr.  Vanringham,  now  seated  upon 
the  table  and  indolently  dangling  his  heels, — the  ecclesi 
astical  monstrosity,  having  locked  the  door  upon  Mrs. 
Audaine,  had  occupied  a  chair  and  was  composedly  smok 
ing  a  churchwarden, — "believe  me,  I  lament  the  neces 
sity  of  this  uncouth  proceeding.  But  heyho!  man  is  a 
selfish  animal.  You  take  me,  sir,  my  affection  for  yon 
der  venerable  lady  does  not  keep  me  awake  o'  nights; 
yet  is  a  rich  marriage  the  only  method  to  amend  my 
threadbare  fortunes,  so  that  I  cheerfully  avail  myself  of 
her  credulity.  By  God!"  cried  he,  with  a  quick  raising 
of  the  voice,  "to'-morrow  I  had  been  a  landed  gentleman 
but  for  you,  you  blundering  omadhaun !  And  is  a  shabby 
merry-andrew  from  the  devil  knows  where  to  pop  in  and 
spoil  the  prettiest  plot  was  ever  hatched?" 

Twas  like  a  flare  of  lightnjng,  this  sudden  outburst  of 
malignity ;  for  you  saw  in  it,  quintessentialized,  the  man's 
stark  and  venomous  hatred  of  a  world  which  had  ill-used 
him ;  and  'twas  over  with  too  as  quickly  as  the  lightning, 
yielding  to  the  pleasantest  smile  imaginable.  Meanwhile 
you  are  to  picture  me,  and  my  emotions,  as  I  lay  beneath 
his  oscillating  toes,  entirely  helpless. 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  77 

"  Twas  not  that  I  lacked  the  courage  to  fight  you,"  he 
continues,  "nor  the  skill,  either.  But  there  is  always  the 
possibility  that  by  some  awkward  thrust  or  other  you 
might  deprive  the  stage  of  a  distinguished  ornament ;  and 
as  a  sincere  admirer  of  my  genius,  I  must,  in  decency, 
avoid  such  risks.  Twas  necessary  to  me,  of  course,  that 
you  be  got  out  of  this  world  speedily,  since  a  further  con 
tinuance  of  your  blunderings  would  interfere  with  my 
plans  for  the  future;  having  gone  thus  far,  I  cannot 
reasonably  be  expected  to  cede  my  interest  in  the 
Marchioness  and  her  estate.  Accordingly  I  decide  upon 
the  handiest  method  and  tip  the  wink  to  Quarmby  here; 
the  lady  quits  the  apartment  in  order  to  afford  us 
opportunity  to  settle  our  pretensions,  with  cutlery  as 
arbiter;  and  she  will  return  to  find  your  perforated  car 
cass  artistically  displayed  in  yonder  extremity  of  the  room. 
Slain  in  an  affair  of  honor,  my  dear  Captain !  The  dis 
puted  damsel  will  think  none  the  worse  of  me,  a  man  of 
demonstrated  valor  and  affection ;  Quarmby  and  I'll  bury 
you  in  the  cellar ;  and  being  freed  from  her  recent  and  un 
fortunate  alliance,  my  esteemed  Dorothy  will  seek  con 
solation  in  the  embraces  of  a  more  acceptable  spouse. 
Confess,  sir,  is  it  not  a  scheme  of  Arcadian  simplicity?" 

'Twas  the  most  extraordinary  sensation  to  note  the 
utterly  urbane  and  cheerful  countenance  with  which  Mr. 
Vanringham  disclosed  the  meditated  atrocity.  This  un 
principled  young  man  was  about  to  run  me  through  with 
no  more  compunction  than  a  naturalist  in  the  act  of 
pinning  a  new  beetle  among  his  collection  may  momen 
tarily  be  aware  of. 

Then  my  quickened  faculties  were  stirred  on  a  sudden, 
and  for  the  first  time  I  opened  my  mouth.  Whatever 


78  GALLANTRY 


claim  I  had  upon  Vanringham,  there  was  no  need  to  ad 
vance  it  now. 

"You  were  about  to  say —  ?"  he  queried. 

"I  was  about  to  relieve  a  certain  surplusage  of  emo 
tion,"  I  retorted,  "by  observing  that  I  regret  to  find  you, 
sir,  a  chattering,  lean-witted  fool — a  vain  and  improvi 
dent  fool!" 

"Harsh  words,  my  Captain,"  says  he,  with  lifted  eye 
brows. 

"O  Lord,  sir,  but  not  of  an  undeserved  asperity!"  I 
returned.  "D'ye  think  the  Marchioness,  her  flighty  head 
crammed  with  scraps  of  idiotic  romance,  would  elope 
without  regard  for  the  canons  of  romance?  Not  so;  de 
pend  upon  it,  a  letter  was  left  upon  her  pin-cushion  an 
nouncing  her  removal  with  you,  and  in  the  most  approved 
heroic  style  arraigning  the  obduracy  of  her  unsympathetic 
grandchildren.  D'ye  think  Gerald  Allonby  will  not  fol 
low  her  ?  Sure,  and  he  will ;  and  the  proof  is,"  I  added, 
"that  you  may  hear  his  horses  yonder  on  the  heath,  as  I 
heard  them  some  moments  ago." 

Vanringham  leaped  to  the  floor  and  stood  thus,  all 
tension.  He  raised  clenched,  quivering  hands  toward 
the  ceiling.  "O  King  of  Jesters!"  he  cried,  in  horrid 
blasphemy ;  and  then  again,  "O  King  of  Jesters !" 

And  by  this  time  men  were  shouting  without,  and  at 
the  door  there  was  a  prodigious  and  augmenting  hammer 
ing.  And  the  Parson  wrung  his  hands  and  began  to 
shake  like  a  dish  of  jelly  in  a  thunder-storm. 

"Captain  Audaine,"  Mr.  Vanringham  resumed,  with 
more  tranquillity,  "you  are  correct.  Clidamira  and 
Parthenissa  would  never  have  fled  into  the  night  without 
leaving  a  note  upon  the  pin-cushion.  The  folly  I  kindled 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  79 

in  your  wife's  addled  pate  has  proven  my  ruin.  Remains 
to  make  the  best  of  Hobson's  choice."  He  unlocked  the 
door.  "Gentlemen,  gentlemen!"  says  he,  with  deprecat 
ing  hand,  "surely  this  disturbance  is  somewhat  outre,  a 
trifle  misplaced,  upon  the  threshold  of  a  bridal-chamber?" 

Then  Gerald  Allonby  thrust  into  the  room,  followed 
by  Lord  Humphrey  Degge,1  my  abhorred  rival  for  Dor 
othy's  affection,  and  two  attendants. 

"My  grandmother!"  shrieks  Gerald.  "Villain,  what 
have  you  done  with  my  grandmother  ?" 

"The  query  were  more  fitly  put,"  Vanringham  retorts, 
"to  the  lady's  husband."  And  he  waves  his  hand  toward 
me. 

Thereupon  the  new-comers  unbound  me  with  vari 
ous  exclamations  of  wonder.  "And  now,"  I  observed,  "I 
would  suggest  that  you  bestow  upon  Mr.  Vanringham  and 
yonder  blot  upon  the  Church  of  England  the  bonds  from 
which  I  have  been  recently  manumitted,  or,  at  the  very 
least,  keep  a  vigilant  watch  upon  those  more  than  suspi 
cious  characters,  the  while  that  I  narrate  the  surprising 
events  of  this  evening." 

VI 

Subsequently  I  made  a  clean  breast  of  affairs  to  Gerald 
and  Lord  Humphrey  Degge.  They  heard  me  with  atten 
tive,  even  sympathetic,  countenances ;  but  by  and  by  the 

1 1  must  in  this  place  entreat  my  reader's  profound  discredit  of 
any  aspersions  I  may  rashly  seem  to  cast  upon  this  honest  gen 
tleman,  whose  friendship  I  to-day  esteem  as  invaluable;  but  I 
wrote,  as  always,  currents  calamo,  and  the  above  was  penned  in 
an  amorous  misery,  sub  Venere,  be  it  remembered;  and  in  such 
cases  a  wrong  bias  is  easily  hung  upon  the  mind. — F.  A. 


80  GALLANTRY 


face  of  Lord  Humphrey  brightened  as  he  saw  a  not  un- 
formidable  rival  thus  jockeyed  from  the  field;  and  when  I 
had  ended,  Gerald  rose  and  with  an  oath  struck  his  open 
palm  upon  the  table. 

"This  is  the  most  fortunate  coincidence,"  he  swears, 
"that  I  have  ever  known  of.  I  come  prepared  to  find 
my  grandmother  the  wife  of  a  beggarly  play-actor,  and 
I  discover  that,  to  the  contrary,  she  has  contracted  an 
alliance  with  a  gentleman  for  whom  I  entertain  sincere 
affection." 

"Surely,"  I  cried,  aghast,  "you  cannot  deliberate  ac 
ceptance  of  this  iniquitous  and  inadvertent  match!" 

"What  is  your  meaning,  Captain  Audaine?"  says  the 
boy,  sharply.  "What  other  course  is  possible?" 

"O  Lord!"  said  I,  "after  to-night's  imbroglio  I  have 
nothing  to  observe  concerning  the  possibility  of  anything ; 
but  if  this  marriage  prove  a  legal  one,  I  am,  most  in- 
dissuadably  resolved  to  rectify  matters  without  delay  in 
the  divorce  court." 

Now  Gerald's  brows  were  uglily  compressed.  "A  di 
vorce,"  said  he,  with  an  extreme  of  deliberation,  "means 
the  airing  of  to-night's  doings  in  the  open.  I  take  it,  'tis 
the  duty  of  a  man  of  honor  to  preserve  the  reputation  of 
his  grandmother  stainless ;  whether  she  be  a  housemaid 
or  the  Queen  of  Portugal,  her  frailties  are  equally  en 
titled  to  endurance,  her  eccentricities  to  toleration :  can 
a  gentleman,  then,  sanction  any  proceeding  of  a  nature 
calculated  to  make  his  grandmother  the  laughing-stock 
of  England  ?  The  point  is  a  nice  one." 

"For,  conceive,"  said  Lord  Humphrey,  with  the  most 
knavish  grin  I  ever  knew  a  human  countenance  to  pollute 
itself  with,  "that  the  entire  matter  will  be  convoyed  by 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  81 

the  short-hand  writers  to  the  public  press,  and  after  this 
will  be  hawked  about  the  streets;  and  that  the  venders 
will  yell  particulars  of  your  grandmother's  folly  under 
your  very  windows;  and  that  you  must  hear  them  in 
impotence,  and  that  for  some  months  the  three  kingdoms 
will  hear  of  nothing  else.  Gad,  I  quite  feel  for  you,  my 
dear." 

"I  have  fallen  into  a  nest  of  madmen,"  I  cried.  "You 
know,  both  of  you,  how  profoundly  I  adore  Mr.  Gerald's 
sister,  the  accomplished  and  bewitching  Miss  Allonby; 
and  in  any  event,  I  demand  of  you,  as  rational  beings,  is 
it  equitable  that  I  be  fettered  for  life  to  an  old  woman's 
apron-strings  because  a  doctor  of  divinity  is  parsimonious 
of  his  candles  ?" 

But  Gerald  had  drawn  with  a  flourish.  "You  have  re 
pudiated  my  kinswoman,"  says  he,  "and  you  cannot  deny 
me  the  customary  satisfaction.  Harkee,  my  fine  fellow, 
Dorothy  will  marry  my  friend  Lord  Humphrey  if  she 
will  be  advised  by  me;  or  if  she  prefer  it,  she  may  marry 
the  Man  in  the  Iron  Mask  or  the  piper  that  played  before 
Moses,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned :  but  as  for  you,  I  hereby 
offer  you  your  choice  between  quitting  this  apartment  as 
my  grandfather  or  as  a  corpse." 

"I  won't  fight  you!"  I  shouted.  "Keep  the  boy  off, 
Degge!"  But  when  the  infuriate  lad  rushed  upon  me, 
I  was  forced,  in  self -protection,  to  draw,  and  after  a  brief 
engagement  to  knock  his  sword  across  the  room. 

"Gerald,"  I  pleaded,  "for  the  love  of  reason,  consider ! 
I  cannot  fight  you.  Heaven  knows  this  tragic  farce  hath 
robbed  me  of  all  pretension  toward  your  sister,  and  that 
I  am  just  now  but  little  better  than  a  madman;  yet  'tis 
her  blood  which  exhilarates  your  veins,  and  with  such 


82  GALLANTRY 


dear  and  precious  fluid  I  cannot  willingly  imbrue  rny 
hands.  Nay,  you  are  no  swordsman,  lad, — keep  off !" 

And  there  I  had  blundered  irretrievably. 

"No  swordsman!  By  God,  I  fling  the  words  in  your 
face,  Frank  Audaine!  must  I  send  the  candlestick  after 
them?"  And  within  the  instant  he  had  caught  up  his 
weapon  and  had  hurled  himself  upon  me,  in  an  abandoned 
fury.  I  had  not  moved.  The  boy  spitted  himself  upon 
my  sword  and  fell  with  a  horrid  gasping. 

"You  will  bear  me  witness,  Lord  Humphrey,"  said  I, 
"that  the  quarrel  was  not  of  my  provokement." 

But  at  this  juncture  the  outer  door  reopened  and 
Dorothy  tripped  into  the  room,  preceding  Lady  Allonby 
and  Mr.  George  Erwyn.  They  had  followed  in  the  fam 
ily  coach  to  dissuade  the  Marchioness  from  her  contem 
plated  match  by  force  or  by  argument,  as  the  cat  might 
jump;  and  so  it  came  about  that  my  dear  mistress  and 
I  stared  at  each  other  across  her  brother's  lifeless  body. 

And  'twas  in  this  poignant  moment  I  first  saw  her 
truly.  In  a  storm  you  have  doubtless  had  some  utterly 
familiar  scene  leap  from  the  darkness,  under  the  lash  of 
lightning,  and  be  for  the  instant  made  visible  and  strange ; 
and  I  beheld  her  with  much  that  awful  clarity.  Formerly 
'twas  her  beauty  had  ensnared  me,  and  this  I  now  per 
ceived  to  be  a  fortuitous  and  happy  medley  of  color  and 
glow  and  curve,  indeed,  yet  nothing  more.  'Twas  the 
wQmajiJ!  jQvecl,  notyher  trappings ;  and  her^eyes  were  no 
more  part  of  her  than  were  the  jewels  in^her  ears.  But 
the  sweet  miyth  of  her,  the  brajre_lT£art,  the  clean  soul, 
ihot  girMier^elf .  how  good  and  generous  and  feigH  and 
tender, — 'twas  this  that  I  now  beheld,  and  knew  that  this, 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  83 

too,  was  lost; — and,  in  beholding,  the  little  love  of  yes 
terday  fled  whimpering  before  the  sacred  passion  which 
had  possessed  my  being.  And  I  began  to  laugh. 

"My  dear,"  said  I,  "  'twas  to-night  that  you  promised 
me  your  answer,  and  to-night  you  observe  in  me  alike 
your  grandfather  and  your  brother's  murderer." 

VII 

Lady  Allonby  fell  to  wringing  her  hands,  but  Dorothy 
had  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  form  and  was  inspecting 
the  ravages  of  my  fratricidal  sword.  "Oh,  f y !  fy !"  says 
she  immediately,  and  wrinkles  her  saucy  nose ;  "had 
none  of  you  the  sense  to  perceive  that  Gerald  was  tipsy  ? 
And  as  for  the  wound,  'tis  only  a  scratch  here  on  the  left 
shoulder.  Get  water,  somebody."  And  her  command 
being  obeyed,  she  cleansed  the  hurt  composedly  and 
bandaged  it  with  the  ruffle  of  her  petticoat. 

Meanwhile  we  hulking  men  stood  thick  about  her, 
fidgeting  and  foolishly  gaping  like  a  basket  of  fish;  and 
presently  a  sibilance  of  relief  went  about  our  circle  as 
Gerald  opened  his  eyes.  "Sister,"  says  he,  with  a  pro 
foundly  tragic  face,  "remember — remember  that  I  per 
ished  to  preserve  the  honor  of  our  family." 

"To  preserve  a  fiddlestick!"  said  my  adored  Dorothy. 
And,  rising,  she  confronted  me,  a  tinted  statuette  of  de 
cision.  "Now,  Frank,"  says  she,  "I  would  like  to  know 
the  meaning  of  this  nonsense." 

And  thereupon,  for  the  second  time,  I  recounted  the 
dreadful  and  huddled  action  of  the  night. 

When  I  had  ended,  "The  first  thing,"  says  she,  "is 


84  GALLANTRY 


to  let  Grandmother  out  of  that  room.  And  the  second 
is  to  show  me  the  Parson."  This  was  done ;  the  Dowager 
entered  in  an  extremity  of  sulkiness,  and  the  Parson,  on 
being  pointed  out,  lowered  his  eyes  and  intensified  his 
complexion. 

"As  I  anticipated,'*  says  my  charmer,  "you  are,  one  and 
all,  a  parcel  of  credulous  infants.  'Tis  a  parson,  indeed, 
but  merely  the  parson  out  of  Vanbrugh's  Relapse;  only 
last  Friday,  sir,  we  heartily  commended  your  fine  per 
formance.  Why,  Frank,  the  man  is  one  of  the  play 
actors." 

"I  fancy,"  Mr.  Vanringham  here  interpolates,  "that  I 
owe  the  assembled  company  some  modicum  of  explana 
tion.  'Tis  true  that  at  the  beginning  of  our  friendship 
I  had  contemplated  matrimony  with  our  amiable  Mar 
chioness,  but,  I  confess,  'twas  the  lady's  property  rather 
than  her  person  which  was  the  allure.  And  reflection 
dissuaded  me ;  a  legal  union  left  me,  a  young  and  not  un 
handsome  man,  irrevocably  fettered  to  an  old  woman ; 
whereas  a  mock-marriage  afforded  an  eternal  option  to 
compound  the  match — for  a  consideration — with  the 
lady's  relatives,  to  whom,  I  had  instinctively  divined,  her 
alliance  with  me  would  prove  distasteful.  Accordingly 
I  had  availed  myself  of  my  colleague's  skill  *  in  the  por 
trayal  of  clerical  parts  rather  than  resort  to  any  parson 
whose  authority  was  unrestricted  by  the  footlights.  And 
accordingly — "  , 

"And  accordingly  my  marriage,"  I  interrupted,  "is  not 
binding?" 

"I  can  assure  you,"  he  replied,  "that  you  might  trade 

1 1  witnessed  this  same  Quarmby's  hanging  in  1754,  and  for  a 
burglary,  I  think,  with  an  extraordinary  relish. — F.  A. 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  85 

your  lawful  right  in  the  lady  for  a  twopenny  whistle  and 
not  lose  by  the  bargain." 

"And  what  about  my  marriage  ?"  says  the  Marchioness 
— "the  marriage  which  was  never  to  be  legalized  ? — 'twas 
merely  that  you  might  sell  me  afterward,  like  so  much 
mutton,  was  it,  you  jumping- jack — !" 

But  I  spare  you  her  ensuing  gloss  upon  this  text. 

The  man  heard  her  through,  without  a  muscle  twitch 
ing.  "It  is  more  than  probable,"  he  conceded,  "that  I 
have  merited  each  and  every  fate  your  Ladyship  is 
pleased  to  invoke.  Indeed,  I  consider  the  extent  of  your 
distresses  to  be  equaled  only  by  that  of  your  vocabulary. 
Yet  by  ordinary  the  heart  of  woman  is  not  obdurate,  and 
upon  one  lady  here  I  have  some  claim — " 

Dorothy  had  drawn  away  from  him,  with  an  odd  and 
frightened  cry.  "Not  upon  me,  sir!  I  never  saw  you 
except  across  the  footlights.  You  know  I  never  saw  you 
except  across  the  footlights,  Mr.  Vanringham!" 

Fixedly  he  regarded  her,  with  a  curious  yet  not  un- 
pleasing  smile.  "I  am  the  more  unfortunate,"  he  said,  at 
last.  "Nay,  'twas  to  Lady  Allonby  I  addressed  my  ap 
peal." 

The  person  he  named  had  been  whispering  with 
George  Erwyn,  but  now  she  turned  toward  the  actor. 
"Heavens!"  said  Lady  Allonby,  "to  think  I  should  be  able 
to  repay  you  this  soon !  La,  of  course,  you  are  at  liberty, 
Mr.  Vanringham,  and  we  may  treat  the  whole  series  of 
events  as  a  frolic  suited  to  the  day.  For  I  am  under 
obligations  to  you,  and,  besides,  your  punishment  would 
breed  a  scandal,  and,  abov^e  all,  anything  is  preferable 
to  being  talked  about  in  the  wrong  way." 

Having  reasons  of  my  own,  I  was  elated  by  the  upshot 


86  GALLANTRY 


of  this  rather  remarkable  affair.  Yet  in  justice  to  my 
own  perspicacity,  I  must  declare  that  it  occurred  to  me,  at 
this  very  time,  that  Mr.  Vanringham  had  proven  himself 
not  entirely  worthy  of  unlimited  confidence.  I  reflected, 
however,  that  I  had  my  instructions,  and  that,  if  a  bad 
king  may  prove  a  good  husband,  a  knave  may  surely 
carry  a  letter  with  fidelity,  the  more  so  if  it  be  to  his 
interest  to  do  it. 


VIII 


I  rode  back  to  Tunbridge  in  the  coach,  with  Dorothy 
at  my  side  and  with  Gerald  recumbent  upon  the  front 
seat, — where  after  ten  minutes'  driving  the  boy  very 
philanthropically  fell  asleep. 

"And  you  have  not,"  I  immediately  asserted — "after 
all,  you  have  not  given  me  the  answer  which  was  to-night 
to  decide  whether  I  be  of  all  mankind  the  most  fortunate 
or  the  most  miserable.  And  'tis  nearing  twelve." 

"What  choice  have  I?"  she  murmured;  "after  to-night 
is  it  not  doubly  apparent  that  you  need  some  one  to  take 
care  of  you?  And,  besides,  this  is  your  eighth  proposal, 
and  the  ninth  I  had  always  rather  meant  to  accept,  be 
cause  I  have  been  in  love  with  you  for  two  whole  weeks." 

My  heart  stood  still.  And  shall  I  confess  that  for  an 
instant  my  wits,  too,  paused  to  play  the  gourmet  with  my 
emotions  ?  She  sat  beside  me  in  the  darkness,  you  under 
stand,  waiting,  mine  to  touch.  And  everywhere  the 
world  was  filled  with  beautiful,  kind  people,  and  over 
head  God  smiled  down  upon  His  world,  and  a  careless 
seraph  had  left  open  the  door  of  Heaven,  so  that  quite  a 
deal  of  its  splendor  flooded  the  world  about  us.  And 


THE  CASUAL  HONEYMOON  87 

the  snoring  of  Gerald  was  now  inaudible  because  of  a 
stately  music  which  was  playing  somewhere. 

"Frank — !"  she  breathed.     And  I  noted  that  her  voice 
was  no  less  tender  than  her  lips. 


IV 

THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER 

As  Played  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  April  2,  1750 

"Ye  gods,  why  are  not  hearts  first  paired  above, 
But  still  some  interfere  in  others'  love, 
Ere  each  for  each  by  certain  marks  are  known  f 
You  mould  them  up  in  haste,  and  drop  them  down, 
And  while  we  seek  what  carelessly  you  sort, 
You  sit  in  state,  and  make  our  pains  your  sport." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

CAPTAIN     AUDAINE,    an    ingenious,    well-accomplished 

gentleman. 
LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE,  an  airy  young  gentleman,  loves 

Miss  Allonby  for  her  money. 
VANRINGHAM,  emissary  and  confederate  of  Audaine. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  a  young  lady  of  wit  and  fortune. 

ATTENDANTS  to  Lord  Humphrey,  Etc. 

ft 

SCENE 

Tunbridge  Wells,  first  in  and  about  Lord  Humphrey's 
lodgings,  then  shifting  to  a  drawing-room  in  Lady 
Allonby's  villa. 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER 
PROEM: — Merely  to  Serve  as  Intermezzo 

NEXT    morning    Captain    Audaine    was    closeted 
with  Mr.  Vanringham  in  the  latter's  apartments 
at  the  Three  Gudgeons.     I  abridge  the  Captain's 
relation  of  their  interview,  and  merely  tell  you  that  it 
ended  in  the  actor's  looking  up,  with  a  puzzled  face,  from 
a  certain  document. 

"You  might  have  let  me  have  a  whiff  of  this,"  Mr. 
Vanringham  began.  "You  might  have  breathed,  say,  a 
syllable  or  two  last  night — " 

"I  had  my  instructions,  sir,  but  yesterday,"  replied  the 
Captain;  "and  surely,  Mr.  Vanringham,  to  have  pre 
sumed  last  night  upon  my  possession  of  this  paper,  so  far 
as  to  have  demanded  any  favor  of  you,  were  unreason 
able,  even  had  it  not  savored  of  cowardice.  For,  as  it  has 
been  very  finely  observed,  it  is  the  nicest  part  of  com 
merce  in  the  world,  that  of  doing  and  receiving  benefits. 
O  Lord,  sir!  there  are  so  many  thousand  circumstances, 
with  respect  to  time,  person,  and  place,  which  either 
heighten  or  allay  the  value  of  the  obligation — " 

"I  take  your  point,"  said  the  other,  with  some  haste, 
"and  concede  that  you  are,  beyond  any  reasonable  doubt, 
in  the  right.  Within  the  hour  I  am  off." 

"Then  all  is  well,"  said  Captain  Audaine. 

But  he  was  wrong  in  this  opinion,  so  wrong  that  I 
confute  him  by  subjoining  his  own  account  of  what  be 
fell,  somewhat  later  in  the  day. 

91 


92  GALLANTRY 


JTwas  hard  upon  ten  in  the  evening  (the  Captain  esti 
mates)  when  I  left  Lady  Culcheth's,1  and  I  protest  that 
at  the  time  there  was  not  a  happier  man  in  all  Tunbridge 
than  Francis  Audaine. 

"You  haven't  the  king?"  Miss  Allonby  was  saying,  as 
I  made  my  adieus  to  the  company.  "Then  I  play  queen, 
knave,  and  ace,  which  gives  me  the  game,  Lord  Hum 
phrey." 

And  afterward  she  shuffled  the  cards  and  flashed  across 
the  room  a  glance  whose  brilliance  shamed  the  tawdry 
candles  about  her,  and,  as  you  can  readily  conceive, 
roused  a  prodigious  trepidation  in  my  adoring  breast. 

"Dorothy! — O  Dorothy!"  I  said  over  and  over  again 
when  I  had  reached  the  street;  and  so  went  homeward 
with  constant  repetitions  of  her  dear  name. 

I  suppose  it  was  an  idiotic  piece  of  business ;  but  you 
are  to  remember  that  I  loved  her  with  an  entire  heart, 
and  that,  as  yet,  I  could  scarcely  believe  the  confession 
of  a  reciprocal  attachment,  which  I  had  wrung  from  her 
overnight,  to  the  accompaniment  of  Gerald's  snoring,  had 
been  other  than  an  unusually  delectable  and  audacious 
dream  upon  the  part  of  Frank  Audaine. 

I  found  it,  then,  as  I  went  homeward,  a  heady  joy  to 
ponder  on  her  loveliness.  Oh,  the  wonder  of  her  voice, 

1  Sir  Henry  Muskerry's  daughter,  of  whom  I  have  already 
spoken,  and  by  common  consent  an  estimable  lady  and  a  person 
of  fine  wit;  but  my  infatuation  for  Lady  Betty  had  by  this  time, 
after  three  nights  with  her,  been  puffed  out;  and  this  fortunate 
extinction,  through  the  affair  of  the  broken  snuffbox,  had  left  me 
now  entirely  indifferent  to  all  her  raptures,  panegyrics,  and  pre 
meditated  artlessnesses. — F.  A. 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  93 

that  is  a  love-song!  cried  my  heart.  Oh,  the  candid  eyes 
of  her,  more  beautiful  than  the  June  heavens,  more  blue 
than  the  very  bluest  speedwell-flower !  Oh,  the  tilt  of  her 
tiny  chin,  and  the  incredible  gold  of  her  hair,  and  the 
quite  unbelievable  pink-and-white  of  her  little  flower- 
soft  face!  And,  oh,  the  scrap  of  crimson  that  is  her 
mouth. 

In  a  word,  my  pulses  throbbed  with  a  sort  of  divine 
insanity,  and  Frank  Audaine  was  as  much  out  of  his 
senses  as  any  madman  now  in  Bedlam,  and  as  deliciously 
perturbed  as  any  lover  is  by  ordinary  when  he  meditates 
upon  the  object  of  his  affections. 

But  there  was  other  work  than  sonneting  afoot  that 
night,  and  shortly  I  set  about  it.  Yet  such  was  my 
felicity  that  I  went  to  my  nocturnal  labors  singing.  Yes, 
it  rang  in  my  ears,  somehow,  that  silly  old  Scotch  song, 
and  under  my  breath  I  hummed  odd  snatches  of  it  as  I 
went  about  the  night's  business. 

Sang  I  : 

"Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
King  James  the  Seventh  had  ae  daughter, 
And  he  gave  her  to  an  Granger. 

"Ken  ye  how  he  requited  him? 
Ken  ye  how  he  requited  him? 
The  dog  has  into  England  come, 
And  ta'en  the  crown  in  spite  of  him! 

"The  rogue  he  salna  keep  it  lang, 
To  budge  we'll  make  him  fain  again; 
We'll  hang  him  high  upon  a  tree, 
And  King  James  shall  hae  his  ain  again  1" 


94  GALLANTRY 


II 


Well!  matters  went  smoothly  enough  at  the  start. 
With  a  diamond  Vanringham  dexterously  cut  out  a  pane 
of  glass,  so  that  we  had  little  difficulty  in  opening  the 
window ;  and  I  climbed  into  a  room  black  as  a  pocket, 
leaving  him  without  to  act  as  a  sentinel,  since,  so  far  as  I 
could  detect,  the  house  was  now  untenanted. 

But  some  twenty  minutes  later,  when  I  had  finally  suc 
ceeded  in  forcing  the  escritoire  I  found  in  the  back  room 
upon  the  second  story,  I  heard  the  street  door  unclose. 
And  I  had  my  candle  extinguished  in  that  self  same  instant. 
You  can  conceive  that  'twas  with  no  pleasurable  anticipa 
tion  I  peered  into  the  hall,  for  I  was  fairly  trapped.  I 
saw  some  five  or  six  men  of  an  ugly  aspect,  who  carried 
among  them  a  burden,  the  nature  of  which  I  could  not 
determine  in  the  uncertain  light.  But  I  heaved  a  sigh  of 
relief  as  they  bore  their  cargo  past  me,  to  the  front  room, 
(which  opened  on  the  one  I  occupied),  without  apparent 
recognition  of  my  presence. 

"Now,"  thinks  I,  "is  the  time  for  my  departure."  And 
having  already  selected  the  papers  I  had  need  of  from  the 
rifled  desk,  I  was  about  to  run  for  it,  when  I  heard  a  well- 
known  voice. 

"Rat  the  parson !"  it  cried ;  "he  should  have  been  here 
an  hour  ago.  Here's  the  door  left  open  for  him,  en 
dangering  the  whole  venture,  and  whey- face  han't  plucked 
up  heart  to  come!  Do  some  of  you  rogues  fetch  him 
without  delay ;  and  do  all  of  you  meet  me  to-morrow  at 
the  Mitre,  to  be  paid  in  full  for  this  business,  before  re 
porting  to  his  Grace." 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  95 

"Here,"  thinks  I,  "is  beyond  doubt  a  romance."  And 
as  the  men  rumbled  down-stairs  and  into  the  street,  I  re 
solved  to  see  the  adventure  through,  by  the  light  of  those 
candles  which  were  now  burning  in  the  next  room. 

I  waited  for  perhaps  ten  minutes,  during  which  period 
I  was  aware  of  divers  movements  near  at  hand;  and, 
judging  that  in  any  case  there  was  but  one  man's  anger 
to  be  apprehended,  I  crept  toward  the  intervening  door 
and  found  it  luckily  ajar. 

So  I  peered  through  the  crack  into  the  adjoining  room, 
and  there,  as  I  had  anticipated,  discovered  Lord  Hum 
phrey  Degge,  whom  I  had  last  seen  at  Lady  Culcheth's 
wrangling  over  a  game  of  ecarte  with  the  fairest  antago 
nist  the  universe  could  afford. 

Just  now  my  Lord  was  in  a  state  of  high  emotion,  and 
the  cause  of  it  was  evident  when  I  perceived  his  ruffians 
had  borne  into  the  house  a  swooning  lady,  whom  merci 
ful  unconsciousness  had  rendered  oblivious  to  her  present 
surroundings,  and  whose  wrists  his  Lordship  was  vigor 
ously  slapping  in  the  intervals  between  his  frequent  appli 
cations  to  her  nostrils  of  a  flask,  which,  as  I  more  lately 
learned,  contained  sal  volatile. 

Here  was  an  unlucky  turn,  since  I  had  no  desire  to  an 
nounce  my  whereabouts,  my  business  in  the  house  being 
of  a  sort  that  necessitated  secrecy;  whereas,  upon  the 
other  hand,  I  could  not  but  misdoubt  my  Lord's  intention 
toward  the  unknown  fair  was  of  discreditable  kinship, 
and  such  as  a  gentleman  might  not  countenance  with  self- 
esteem. 

Accordingly  I  devoted  the  moments  during  which  the 
lady  was  recovering  from  her  swoon,  to  serious  reflection 
concerning  the  course  that  I  should  preferably  adopt. 


%  GALLANTRY 


But  now,  Miss  came  to,  and,  as  is  the  custom  of  all  fe 
males  similarly  situated,  rubbed  her  eyes  and  said,  "Where 
am  I?" 

And  when  she  rose  from  the  divan  I  saw  that  'twas  my 
adored  Dorothy. 

"In  the  presence  of  your  infatuated  slave,"  says  my 
Lord.  "Ah,  divine  Miss  Allonby — !" 

But  being  now  aware  of  her  deplorable  circumstances, 
she  began  to  weep,  and,  in  spite  of  the  amorous  rhetoric 
with  which  his  Lordship  was  prompt  to  comfort  her,  re 
buked  him  for  unmanly  conduct,  with  sublimity  and  fire, 
and  depicted  the  horrors  of  her  present  predicament  in 
terms  that  were  both  just  and  elegant. 

From  their  disjointed  talk  I  soon  determined  that, 
Lord  Humphrey's  suit  being  rejected  by  my  angel,  he 
had  laid  a  trap  for  her  (by  bribing  her  coachman,  as  I 
subsequently  learned),  and  had  so  far  succeeded  in  his 
nefarious  scheme  that  she,  on  leaving  Lady  Culcheth's, 
had  been  driven  to  this  house,  in  the  conviction  she  rode 
homeward ;  and  this  course  my  Lord  endeavored  to  jus 
tify,  with  a  certain  eloquence,  and  attributed  the  irregu 
larity  of  his  behavior  solely  to  the  colossal  vehemence  of 
his  affection. 

His  oratory,  however,  was  of  little  avail,  for  Dorothy 
told  him  plainly  that  she  had  rather  hear  the  protesta 
tions  of  a  toad  than  listen  to  his  far  more  nauseous  flat 
tery;  and  bade  him  at  once  restore  her  to  her  natural 
guardians. 

"Ma  charmante,"  said  he,  "to-morrow  your  good  step 
mother  may,  if  you  will,  share  with  your  husband  the 
privilege  of  saluting  Lady  Humphrey  Degge;  but  as  for 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  97 

Miss  Allonby,  I  question  if  in  the  future  her  dearest 
friends  are  likely  to  see  much  of  her." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  cries  she. 

"That  the  parson  will  be  here  directly,"  said  he. 

"Infamous !"  she  observes ;  "and  is  the  world  run  mad, 
that  these  extempore  weddings  should  be  foisted  upon 
every  woman  in  the  Allonby  connection !" 

"Ah,  but,  my  dear,"  he  answered  airily,  "  'twas  those 
two  fiascos  which  begot  my  notion,  and  yet  hearten  me. 
For  in  every  approved  romance  the  third  adventurer  gets 
the  victory;  so  that  I  am,  I  take  it,  predestinate  to  win 
where  Vanringham  and  Rokesle  failed." 

She  did  not  chop  logic  with  him,  but  instead  retorted 
in  a  more  primitive  fashion  by  beginning  to  scream  at  the 
top  of  her  voice. 

I  doubt  if  any  man  of  honor  was  ever  placed  under  a 
more  great  embarrass.  Yonder  was  the  object  of  my 
devotion,  exposed  to  all  the  diabolical  machinations  of  a 
heartless  villain;  and  here  was  I  concealed  in  my  Lord's 
bedroom,  his  desk  broken  open,  and  his  papers  in  my 
pocket.  To  remain  quiet  was  impossible,  since  'twas  to 
expose  her  to  a  fate  worse  than  death ;  yet  to  reveal 
myself  was  to  confess  Frank  Audaine  a  thief,  and  to  lose 
her  perhaps  beyond  redemption. 

Then  I  thought  of  the  mask  which  I  had  brought  in 
case  of  emergency ;  and,  clapping  it  on,  resolved  to  brazen 
out  the  affair.  Meanwhile  I  saw  all  notions  of  gallantry 
turned  topsy-turvy,  for  my  Lord  was  laughing  quietly, 
while  my  adored  Dorothy  called  aloud  upon  the  name  of 
her  Maker. 

"The    neighborhood    is    not    unaccustomed    to    such 


98  GALLANTRY 


sounds,"  said  he,  "and  I  hardly  think  we  need  fear  any 
interruption.  I  must  tell  you,  my  dear  creature,  you 
have,  by  an  evil  chance,  arrived  in  a  most  evil  locality, 
for  this  quarter  of  the  town  is  the  devil's  own  country, 
and  he  is  scarcely  like  to*  make  you  free  of  it." 

"O  Lord,  sir !"  said  I,  and  pushed  the  door  wide  open, 
"surely  you  forget  that  the  devil  is  a  gentleman  ?" 

Ill 

Had  I  dropped  a  hand-grenade  into  the  apartment  the 
astonishment  of  its  occupants  would  not  have  been 
excessive.  My  Lord's  face,  as  he  clapped  his  hand  to 
his  sword,  was  neither  tranquil  nor  altogether  agreeable 
to  contemplate ;  but  as  for  Dorothy,  she  gave  a  frightened 
little  cry,  and  ran  toward  the  masked  intruder  with  a 
piteous  confidence  which  wrung  my  heart. 

"The  devil!"  says  my  Lord. 

"Not  precisely,"  I  amended,  and  bowed  in  my  best 
manner,  "though  'tis  undeniable  I  come  to  act  as  his 
representative." 

"Oh,  joy  to  your  success!"  his  Lordship  sneered. 

"Harkee,  sir,"  said  I,  "as  you,  with  perfect  justice, 
have  stated,  this  is  the  devil's  stronghold,  and  hereabouts 
his  will  is  paramount;  and,  as  I  have  had  the  honor  to 
add,  the  devil  is  a  gentleman.  Sure,  and  as  such,  he 
cannot  be  expected  to  countenance  your  present  behavior  ? 
Nay,  never  fear!  Lucifer,  already  up  to  the  ears  in  the 
affairs  of  this  mundane  sphere,  lacks  leisure  to  express 
his  disapproval  in  sulphuric  person.  He  tenders  his 
apologies,  sir,  and  sends  in  his  stead  your  servant,  with 
whose  capabilities  he  is  indifferently  acquainted." 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  99 

"To  drop  this  mummery,"  says  Lord  Humphrey,  "what 
are  you  doing  in  my  lodgings  ?" 

"O  Lord,  sir!"  I  responded,  "I  came  thither,  I  con 
fess,  without  invitation.  And  with  equal  candor  I  will 
admit  that  my  present  need  is  of  your  Lordship's  bank 
notes  and  jewels,  and  such-like  trifles,  rather  than — you 
force  me,  sir,  to  say  it, — rather  than  of  your  company." 

Thus  speaking,  I  drew  and  placed  myself  on  guard, 
while  my  Lord  gasped. 

"You're  the  most  impudent  rogue,"  says  he,  after  he 
had  recovered  himself  a  little,  "that  I  have  had  the 
privilege  of  meeting — " 

"Your  Lordship  is  all  kindness,"  I  protested. 

" — but  your  impudence  is  worth  the  price  of  whatever 
you  may  have  pilfered.  Go,  my  good  man — or  devil,  if 
you  so  prefer  to  style  yourself !  Tell  Lucifer  that  he  is 
well  served ;  and  obligingly  return  to  the  infernal  regions 
without  delay.  For,  as  you  have  doubtless  learned,  Miss 
and  I  have  many  private  matters  to  discuss.  And,  gad, 
Mr.  Moloch,1  pleasant  as  is  your  conversation,  you  must 
acknowledge  I  can't  allow  evil  spirits  about  the  house 
without  getting  it  an  ill  reputation.  So  pardon  me  if  I 
exorcise  you  with  this." 

He  spoke  boldly,  and,  as  he  ended,  tossed  me  a  purse. 
I  let  it  lie  where  it  fell,  for  I  had  by  no  means  ended  my 
argument. 

"Yet,  sir,"  said  I,  "my  errand,  which  began  with  the 

*A  deity  of,  I  believe,  Ammpnitish  origin.  His  traditional 
character  as  represented  by  our  immortal  Milton  is  both  taking 
to  the  fancy  and  finely  romantic;  and  is,  I  am  informed,  no  less 
remarkable  for  many  happy  turns  of  speech  than  for  conformity 
throughout  to  the  most  famous  legends  of  Talmudic  fabrica 
tion.— F.  A. 


100  GALLANTRY 


acquisition  of  your  pins,  studs  and  other  jewelry,  now 
reaches  toward  treasure  far  more  precious — " 

"Enough !"  he  cried,  impatiently.  "Begone!  and  do  you 
render  thanks  that  my  present  business  is  so  urgent  as  to 
prevent  my  furnishing  the  rope  which  will  one  day  adorn 
your  neck." 

"That's  as  may  be,"  quoth  I ;  "and,  indeed,  I  doubt  if  I 
could  abide  drowning,  for  'tis  a  damp,  unwholesome,  and 
very  permanent  sort  of  death.  But  my  fixed  purpose,  to 
cut  short  all  debate,  is  to  escort  Miss  Allonby  homeward." 

"Come,"  sneers  my  Lord, — "come,  Mr.  Moloch,  I  have 
borne  with  your  insolence  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour — " 

"Twenty  minutes,"  said  I,  after  consulting  my  watch. 

" — but  I  mean  to  put  up  with  it  no  longer;  and  in 
consequence  I  take  the  boorish  liberty  of  suggesting  that 
this  is  none  of  your  affair." 

"Good  sir,"  I  conceded,  "your  Lordship  speaks  with 
considerable  justice,  and  we  must  leave  the  final  decision 
to  Miss  here." 

I  bowed  toward  her.  In  her  face  there  was  a  curious 
bewilderment  that  made  me  fear  lest,  for  all  my  mask,  for 
all  my  unnatural  intonations,  and  for  all  the  room's  half- 
light,  my  worshipped  mistress  had  come  near  to  recog 
nizing  this  caught  thief. 

"Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  in  a  falsetto  voice  which  trem 
bled,  "since  I  am  unknown  to  you,  may  I  trust  you  will 
permit  me  to  present  myself?  My  name — though,  in 
deed,  I  have  a  multitude  of  names — is  for  the  occasion 
Frederick  Thomasson.  With  my  father's  appellation  and 
estates  I  cannot  accommodate  you,  for  the  reason  that  a 
mystery  attaches  to  his  identity.  As  for  my  mother,  let 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  101 

it  suffice  to  say  that  she  was  a  vivacious  brunette  of  a 
large  acquaintance,  and  generally  known  to  the  public  as 
Black  Moll  O'Reilly.  I  began  life  as  a  pickpocket. 
Since  then  I  have  so  far  improved  my  natural  gifts  that 
the  police  are  flattering  enough  to  value  my  person  at 
several  hundred  pounds.  My  rank  in  society,  as  you  per 
ceive,  is  not  exalted ;  yet,  if  my  luck  by  any  chance  should 
fail,  I  do  not  question  that  I  shall,  upon  some  subsequent 
Friday,  move  in  loftier  circles  than  any  nobleman  who 
happens  at  the  time  to  be  on  Tyburn  Hill. — So  much  for 
my  poor  self.  And  since  by  this  late  hour  Lady  Allonby 
is  beyond  doubt  beginning  to  grow  uneasy,  let  us  have 
done  with  further  exposition,  and  remember  that  'tis  high 
time  you  selected  an  escort  to  her  residence.  May  I  im 
plore  that  you  choose  between  the  son  of  the  Marquis  of 
Venour  and  Black  Molly's  bastard  ?" 

She  looked  us  over, — first  one,  then  the  other.  More 
lately  she  laughed ;  and  if  I  had  never  seen  her  before,  I 
could  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  love  her  for  the  sweet 
insolence  of  her  demeanor. 

"After  all,"  said  my  adored  Dorothy,  "I  prefer  the 
rogue  who  when  he  goes  about  his  knaveries  has  at  least 
the  decency  to  wear  a  mask." 

"That,  my  Lord,"  said  I,  "is  fairly  conclusive;  and  so 
we  will  be  journeying." 

"Over  my  dead  body !"  says  he. 

"Sure,  and  what's  beneath  the  feet,"  I  protested,  "is 
equally  beneath  consideration." 

The  witticism  stung  him  like  a  wasp,  and,  with  an  oath, 
he  drew,  as  I  was  heartily  glad  to  observe,  for  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  when  it  comes  to  the  last  pinch,  and 


102  GALLANTRY 


one  gentleman  is  excessively  annoyed  by  the  existence  of 
another,  steel  is  your  only  arbiter,  and  charitable  allow 
ances  for  the  dead  make  the  one  rational  peroration.  So 
we  crossed  blades ;  and,  pursuing  my  usual  tactics,  I  be 
gan  upon  a  flow  of  words,  which  course,  as  I  have  learned 
by  old  experience,  is  apt  to  disconcert  an  adversary  far 
more  than  any  trick  of  the  sword  can  do. 

I  pressed  him  sorely,  and  he  continued  to  give  way, 
but  clearly  for  tactical  purposes,  and  without  permitting 
the  bright  flash  of  steel  that  protected  him  to  swerve  an 
instant  from  the  proper  line. 

"Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  growing  impatient,  "have  you 
never  seen  a  venomous  insect  pinned  to  the  wall?  In 
that  case,  I  pray  you  to  attend  more  closely.  For  one 
has  only  to  parry — thus !  And  to  thrust — in  this  fashion ! 
And  behold,  the  thing  is  done !" 

In  fact,  having  been  run  through  the  chest,  my  Lord 
was  for  the  moment  affixed  to  the  panelling  at  the  ex 
treme  end  of  the  apartment,  where  he  writhed,  much  in 
the  manner  of  a  cockchafer  which  mischievous  urchins 
have  pinned  to  a  card, — his  mien  and  his  gesticulations, 
however,  being  rather  more  suggestive  of  the  torments  of 
the  damned,  as  they  are  so  strikingly  depicted  by  the 
Italian  Dante.1  He  tumbled  in  a  heap,  though,  when  I 
sheathed  my  sword  and  bowed  toward  my  charmer. 

"Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  "thus  quickly  ends  this  evil 
quarter  of  an  hour;  and  with  equal  expedition,  I  think, 
should  we  be  leaving  this  evil  quarter  of  the  town." 

She  had  watched  the  combat  with  staring  and  fright- 

I 1  allude,  of  course,  to  the  famous  Florentine,  who  excels  no 
less  in  his  detailed  depictions  of  infernal  anguish  than  in  his  elo 
quent  portrayal  of  the  graduated  and  equitable  emoluments  of  an 
eternal  glorification. — F.  A. 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  103 

ened  eyes.  Now  she  had  drawn  nearer,  and  she  looked 
curiously  at  her  over-presumptuous  lover  where  he  had 
fallen. 

"Have  you  killed  him  ?"  she  asked,  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"O  Lord,  no!"  I  protested.  "The  life  of  a  peer's  son 
is  too  valuable  a  matter ;  he  will  be  little  the  worse  for  it 
in  a  week." 

"The  dog!"  cries  she,  overcome  with  pardonable  in 
dignation  at  the  affront  which  the  misguided  nobleman 
had  put  upon  her;  and  afterward,  with  a  ferocity  the  more 
astounding  in  an  individual  whose  demeanor  was  by  ordi 
nary  of  an  aspect  so  amiable  and  so  engaging,  she 
said,  "Oh,  the  lewd  thieving  dog !" 

"My  adorable  Miss  Allonby,"  said  I,  "do  not,  I  pray 
you,  thus  slander  the  canine  species !  Meanwhile,  permit 
me  to  remind  you  that  'tis  inexpedient  to  loiter  in  these 
parts,  for  the  parson  will  presently  be  at  hand ;  and  if  it 
be  to  inter  rather  than  to  marry  Lord  Humphrey — well, 
after  all,  the  peerage  is  a  populous  estate!  But,  either 
way,  time  presses." 

"Come!"  said  she,  and  took  my  arm;  and  together  we 
went  down-stairs  and  into  the  street. 


IV 


On  the  way  homeward  she  spoke  never  a  word.  Van- 
ringham  had  made  a  hasty  flitting  when  my  Lord's  people 
arrived,  so  that  we  saw  nothing  of  him.  But  when  we 
had  come  safely  to  Lady  Allonby's  villa,  Dorothy  began 
to  laugh. 

"Captain  Audaine,"  says  she,  in  a  wearied  and  scorn 
ful  voice,  "I  know  that  the  hour  is  very  late,  yet  there  are 


104  GALLANTRY 


certain  matters  to  be  settled  between  us  which  will,  I 
think,  scarcely  admit  of  delay.  I  pray  you,  then,  grant 
me  ten  minutes'  conversation." 

She  had  known  me  all  along,  you  see.  Trust  the 
dullest  woman  to  play  CEdipus  when  love  sets  the  riddle. 
So  there  was  nothing  to  do  save  clap  my  mask  into  my 
pocket  and  follow  her,  sheepishly  enough,  toward  one  of 
the  salons,  where  at  Dorothy's  solicitation  a  gaping  foot 
man  made  a  light  for  us. 

She  left  me  there  to  kick  my  heels  through  a  solitude 
of  some  moments'  extent.  But  in  a  while  my  dear  mis 
tress  came  into  the  room,  with  her  arms  full  of  trinkets 
and  knick-knacks,  which  she  flung  upon  a  table. 

"Here's  your  ring,  Captain  Audaine,"  says  she,  and 
drew  it  from  her  finger.  "I  did  not  wear  it  long,  did  I? 
And  here's  the  miniature  you  gave  me,  too.  I  used  to 
kiss  it  every  night,  you  know.  And  here's  a  flower  you 
dropped  at  Lady  Pevensey's.  I  picked  it  up — oh,  very 
secretly! — because  you  had  worn  it,  you  understand. 
And  here's—" 

But  at  this  point  she  fairly  broke  down;  and  she  cast 
her  round  white  arms  about  the  heap  of  trinkets,  and 
strained  them  close  to  her,  and  bowed  her  imperious 
golden  head  above  them  in  anguish. 

"Oh,  how  I  loved  you — how  I  loved  you !"  she  sobbed. 
"And  all  the  while  you  were  only  a  common  thief !" 

"Dorothy— !"  I  pleaded. 

"You  shame  me — you  shame  me  past  utterance!"  she 
cried,  in  a  storm  of  mingled  tears  and  laughter.  "Here's 
this  bold  Captain  Audaine,  who  comes  to  Tunbridge  from 
nobody  knows  where,  and  wins  a  maid's  love,  and  proves 
in  the  end  a  beggarly  house-breaker !  Mr.  Garrick  might 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  105 

make  a  mirthful  comedy  of  this,  might  he  not?"     Then 

she  rose  to  her  feet  very  stiffly.     "Take  your  gifts,  Mr. 

Thief,"  says  she,  pointing, — "take  them.    And  for  God's 

sake  let  me  not  see  you  again !" 

So  I  was  forced  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it. 
"Dorothy,"  said  I,  "ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer?" 
But    she    only    stared    at   me   through   unshed   tears. 

Presently,  though,  I  hummed  over  the  old  song : 

"Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
King  James  the  Seventh  had  ae  daughter, 
And  he  gave  her  to  an  Granger. 

"And  the  Granger  filched  his  crown,"  said  I,  "and 
drove  King  James — God  bless  him ! — out  of  his  kingdom. 
This  was  a  while  and  a  half  ago,  my  dear;  but  Dutch 
William  left  the  stolen  crown  to  Anne,  and  Anne,  in  turn, 
left  it  to  German  George.  So  that  now  the  Elector  of 
Hanover  reigns  at  St.  James's,  while  the  true  King's 
son  must  skulk  in  France,  with  never  a  roof  to  shelter 
him..  And  there  are  certain  gentlemen,  Dorothy,  who  do 
not  consider  that  this  is  right." 

"You  are  a  Jacobite  ?"  said  she.  "Well !  and  what  have 
your  politics  to  do  with  the  matter  ?" 

"Simply  that  Lord  Humphrey  is  not  of  my  way  of 
thinking,  my  dearest  dear.  Lord  Humphrey — pah! — this 
Degge  is  Ormskirk's  spy,  I  tell  you !  He  followed  Van- 
ringham  to  Tunbridge  on  account  of  our  business.  And 
to-day,  when  Vanringham  set  out  for  Avignon,  he  was 
stopped  a  mile  from  the  Wells  by  some  six  of  Lord  Hum 
phrey's  fellows,  disguised  as  highwaymen,  and  all  his 
papers  were  stolen.  Oho,  but  Lord  Humphrey  is  a 


106  GALLANTRY 


thrifty  fellow :  so  when  Ormskirk  puts  six  bandits  at  his 
disposal  he  employs  them  in  double  infamy,  to  steal  you 
as  well  as  Vanringham's  despatches.  To-morrow  they 
would  have  been  in  Ormskirk's  hands.  And  then-—"  I 
paused  to  allow  myself  a  whistle. 

She  came  a  little  toward  me,  in  the  prettiest  possible 
glow  of  bewilderment.  "I  do>  not  understand,"  she  mur 
mured.  "Oh,  Frank,  Frank,  for  the  love  of  God,  beware 
of  trusting  Vanringham  in  anything !  And  you  are  not  a 
thief,  after  all  ?  Are  you  really  not  named  Thomasson?" 

"I  am  most  assuredly  not  Frederick  Thomasson,"  said 
I,  "nor  do  I  know  if  any  such  person  exists,  for  I  never 
heard  the  name  before  to-night.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this,  I 
am  an  unmitigated  thief.  Why,  d'ye  not  understand? 
What  Vanringham  carried  was  a  petition  from  some  two 
hundred  Scotch  and  English  gentlemen  that  our  gracious 
Prince  Charlie  be  pleased  to  come  over  and  take  back  his 
own  from  the  Elector.  Twas  rebellion,  flat  rebellion, 
and  the  very  highest  treason!  Had  Ormskirk  seen  the 
paper,  within  a  month  our  heads  had  all  been  blackening 
over  Temple  Bar.  So  I  stole  it, — I,  Francis  Audaine, 
stole  it  in  the  King's  cause,  God  bless  him!  'Twas 
burglary,  no  less,  but  it  saved  two  hundred  lives,  my  own 
included ;  and  I  look  to  be  a  deal  older  than  I  am  before 
I  regret  the  deed  with  any  sincerity." 

Afterward  I  showed  her  the  papers,  and  then  burned 
them  one  by  one  over  a  candle.  She  said  nothing.  So 
by  and  by  I  turned  toward  her  with  a  little  bow. 

"Madam,"  said  I,  "you  have  forced  my  secret  from 
me.  I  know  that  your  family  is  staunch  on  the  Whig 
side;  and  yet,  ere  the  thief  goes,  may  he  not  trust  you 
will  ne'er  betray  him  ?" 


THE  RHYME  TO  PORRINGER  107 

And  now  she  came  to  me,  all  penitence  and  dimples. 

"But  it  was  you  who  said  you  were  a  thief,"  my  dear 
mistress  pointed  out. 

"O  Lord,  madam !"  said  I,  "  'twas  very  necessary  that 
Degge  should  think  me  so.  A  house-breaker  they  would 
have  only  hanged,  but  a  Jacobite  they  would  have  hanged 
and  quartered  afterward." 

"Ah,  Frank,  do  not  speak  of  such  fearful  matters,  but 
forgive  me  instantly !"  she  wailed. 

And  I  was  about  to  do  so  in  what  I  considered  the  most 
agreeable  and  appropriate  manner  when  the  madcap 
broke  away  from  me,  and  sprang  upon  a  footstool  and 
waved  her  fan  defiantly. 

"Down  with  the  Elector !"  she  cried,  in  her  high,  sweet 
voice.  "Long  live  King  James !" 

And  then,  with  a  most  lovely  wildness  of  mien,  she  be 
gan  to  sing: 

"Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
Ken  ye  the  rhyme  to  porringer? 
King  James  the  Seventh  had  ae  daughter — " 

until  I  interrupted  her.  For,  "Extraordinary  creature!" 
I  pleaded,  "you  will  rouse  the  house." 

"I  don't  care!  I  intend  to  be  a  Jacobite  if  you  are 
one!" 

"Eh,  well,"  said  I,  "Frank  Audaine  is  not  the  man  to 
coerce  his  wife  in  a  political  matter.  Nevertheless,  I 
know  of  a  certain  Jacobite  who  is  not  unlikely  to  have  a 
bad  time  of  it  if  by  any  chance  Lord  Humphrey  recog 
nized  him  to-night.  Nay,  Miss,  you  may  live  to  be  a 
widow  yet." 

"But  he  didn't  recognize  you.     And  if  he  did" — she 


108  GALLANTRY 


snapped  her  fingers, — "why,  we'll  fight  him  again,  you 
and  I.  Won't  we,  my  dear?  For  he  stole  our  secret, 
you  know.  And  he  stole  me,  too.  Very  pretty  behavior, 
wasn't  it?"  And  here  Miss  Allonby  stamped  the  tiniest, 
the  most  infinitesimal  of  red-heeled  slippers. 

"The  rogue  he  didna  keep  me  lang, 
To  budge  we  made  him  fain  again — 

"that's  you,  Frank,  and  your  great,  long  sword.  And 
now: 

"Weli  hang  him  high  upon  a  tree, 
And  King  Frank  shall  hae  his  ain  again !" 

Afterward  my  adored  Dorothy  jumped  from  the  foot 
stool,  and  came  toward  me,  lifting  up  the  crimson  trifle 
that  she  calls  her  mouth.  "So  take  your  own,  my  king," 
she  breathed,  with  a  wonderful  gesture  of  surrender. 

And  a  gentleman  could  do  no  less. 


ACTORS  ALL 
As  Played  at  Twnbridge  Wells,  April  3,  l?5O 

"I  am  ttunking  if  some  little,  filching,  inquisitive  poet 
should  get  my  story,  and  represent  it  to  the  stage,  what 
those  ladies  who  are  never  precise  but  at  a  play  would  say 
of  me  now, — that  I  were  a  confident,  coming  piece,  I 
warrant,  and  they  would  damn  the  poor  poet  for  libelling 
the  sex!' 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

COLONEL  DENSTROUDE,   1 

SIR  GRESLEY  CARNE,       I  Gentlemen  of  the  town. 

MR.  BABINGTON-HERLE,  j 

VANRINGHAM,  a  play-actor  and  a  Jacobite  emissary. 

MR.  LANGTON,  secretary  to  Ormskirk. 

Miss  ALLONBY,  an  heiress,  loves  Captain  Audaine. 
LOTTRUM,  maid  to  Miss  Allonby. 

BENYON,  MINCHIN,  and  OTHER  SERVANTS  to  Ormskirk. 

SCENE 

Tunbridge  Wells,  shifting  from  Ormskirk's  lodgings  at 
the  Mitre  to  Vanringham's  apartments  in  the  Three 
Gudgeons. 


ACTORS  ALL 

PROEM  >-To  Explain  Why  the  Heroine  of  This  Comedy  Must 
Wear  Her  Best 

I  QUIT  pilfering  from  the  writings  of  Francis  Au- 
daine,  since  in  the  happenings  which  now  concern 
us  he  plays  but  a  subsidiary  part.  The  Captain 
had  an  utter  faith  in  decorum,  and  therefore  it  was,  as  he 
records,  an  earth-staggering  shock  when  the  following 
day,  on  the  Pantiles,  in  full  sight  of  the  best  company  at 
the  Wells,  Captain  Audaine  was  apprehended.  He  met 
disaster  like  an  old  acquaintance,  and  hummed  a  scrap  of 
song — "O,  gin  I  were  a  bonny  bird" — and  shrugged ;  but 
when  Miss  Allonby,  with  whom  he  had  been  chatting, 
swayed  and  fell,  the  Captain  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
standing  thus,  turned  angrily  upon  the  emissaries  of  the 
law. 

"Look  you,  you  rascals/'  said  he,  "you  have  spoiled 
a  lady's  afternoon  with  your  foolish  warrant !" 

He  then  relinquished  the  unconscious  girl  to  her 
brother's  keeping,  tenderly  kissed  one  insensate  hand,  and 
afterward  strolled  off  to  jail  en  route  for  a  perfunctory 
trial  and  a  subsequent  traffic  with  the  executioner  that 
Audaine  did  not  care  to  think  of. 

Tunbridge  buzzed  like  a  fly-trap  with  the  ensuing 
rumors.  The  Captain  was  at  the  head  of  a  most  heinous 
Jacobitical  uprising.  The  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk  was 
come  hastily  from  London  on  the  business.  Highlanders 
were  swarming  over  the  Border,  ten  thousand  French 

111 


112  GALLANTRY 


troops  had  landed  at  Pevensey,  commanded  by  the 
Chevalier  St.  George  in  person,  and  twenty  thousand 
friars  and  pilgrims  from  Coruna  had  sailed  for  Milford 
Haven,  under  the  admiralty  of  young  Henry  Stuart.  The 
King  was  locked  in  the  Tower;  the  King  had  been  as 
sassinated  that  morning  by  a  Spanish  monk,  with  horse- 
pistols  and  a  cast  in  his  left  eye;  and  the  King  and  the 
Countess  of  Yarmouth  had  escaped  three  days  ago,  in 
disguise,  and  were  now  on  their  way  to  Hanover. 

These  were  the  reports  which  went  about  Tunbridge, 
while  Dorothy  Allonby  wept  a  little  and  presently  called 
for  cold  water  and  a  powder-puff,  and  afterward  for  a 
sedan  chair. 


Miss  Allonby  found  my  Lord  Duke  of  Ormskirk  deep 
in  an  infinity  of  papers.  But  at  her  entrance  he  rose  and 
with  a  sign  dismissed  his  secretary. 

It  appears  appropriate  here  to  afford  you  some  notion 
of  Ormskirk's  exterior.  I  pilfer  from  Lowe's  memoir  of 
him,  where  Horace  Calverley,  who  first  saw  Ormskirk  at 
about  this  time,  is  quoted  : 

"His  Grace  was  in  blue-and-silver,  which  became  him, 
though  he  is  somewhat  stomachy  for  such  conspicuous 
colors.  A  handsome  man,  I  would  have  said,  honest  but 
not  particularly  intelligent.  .  .  .  Walpole,  in  a  fit  of 
spleen,  once  called  him  *a  porcelain  sphinx/  and  the 
phrase  sticks;  but,  indeed,  there  is  more  of  the  china- 
doll  about  him.  He  possesses  the  same  too-perfect  com 
plexion,  his  blue  eyes  have  the  same  spick-and-span 
vacuity ;  and  the  fact  that  the  right  orb  is  a  trifle  larger 


ACTORS  ALL  113 


than  its  fellow  gives  his  countenance,  in  repose,  much  the 
same  expression  of  placid  astonishment.  .  .  .  Very 
plump,  very  sleepy-looking,  immaculate  as  a  cat,  you 
would  never  have  accorded  him  a  second  glance :  covert 
whisperings  that  the  stout  gentleman  yonder  is  the  great 
Duke  of  Ormskirk  have,  I  think,  taxed  human  belief 
more  than  once  during  these  ten  years  past." 

They  said  of  Ormskirk  that  he  manifested  a  certain 
excitement  on  the  day  after  Culloden,  when  he  had  sev 
enty-two  prisoners  shot  en  masse?  but  this  was  doubted ; 
and  in  any  event,  such  battues  being  comparatively  rare, 
he  by  ordinary  appeared  to  regard  the  universe  with  a 
composed  and  feline  indifference. 

II 

"Child,  child!"  Ormskirk  began,  and  made  a  tiny  ges 
ture  of  deprecation,  "I  perceive  you  are  about  to  appeal 
to  my  better  nature,  and  so  I  warn  you  in  advance  that 
the  idiotic  business  has  worked  me  into  a  temper  ab 
solutely  ogreish." 

"The  Jacobite  conspiracy,  you  mean?"  said  Miss  Al- 
lonby.  "Oh,  I  suppose  so.  I  am  not  particularly  inter 
ested  in  such  matters,  though;  I  came,  you  understand, 
for  a  warrant,  or  an  order,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  for 
them  to  let  Frank  out  of  that  horrid  filthy  gaol." 

The  Duke's  face  was  gravely  humorous  as  he  gazed  at 

1  But  for  all  that,  when,  near  Rossinish  (see  Lowe),  he  cap 
tured  Flora  Macdonald  and  her  ostensibly  female  companion, 
Ormskirk  flatly  declined  to  recognize  Prince  Charles.  "They  may 
well  call  you  the  Pretender,  madam,"  he  observed  to  "Bettie 
Burke," — "since  as  concerns  my  party  you  are  the  most  desirable 
Pretender  we  could  possibly  imagine."  And  thereupon  he  gave 
the  Prince  a  pass  out  of  Scotland. 


114  GALLANTRY 


her  for  a  moment  or  two  in  silence.  "You  know  quite 
well,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I  can  give  you  nothing  of  the 
sort." 

Miss  Allonby  said:  "Upon  my  word,  I  never  heard 
of  such  nonsense!  How  else  is  he  to  take  me  to  Lady 
Mackworth's  ball  to-night?" 

"It  is  deplorable,"  his  Grace  of  Ortnskirk  conceded, 
"that  Captain  Audaine  should  be  thus  snatched  from 
circles  which  he,  no  doubt,  adorns.  Still,  I  fear  you 
must  look  for  another  escort;  and  frankly,  child,  if  you 
will  be  advised  by  me,  you  will  permit  us  to  follow  out 
our  present  intentions  and  take  off  his  head  —  not  reat 

- 


deprivation  when  you  consider  he  has  so  plainly  gnon 
strated  its  contents  to  be  of  such  inferior  quality.^ 

She  had  drawn  close  to  him,  with  widening,  'iable 
eyes.  "You  mean,  then,"  she  demanded,  "that  ank's 
very  life  is  in  danger?"  £  t>o» 

"This  is  unfair,"  the  Duke  complained.  "You  are 
about  to  go  into  hysterics  forthwith  and  thus  bully  me 
into  letting  the  man  ^Tcape.  You  are  a  minx.  You  pre 
sume  upon  the  fact  that  in  the  autumn  I  am  to  wed  your 
kinswoman  and  bosom  companion,  and  that  my  affection 
for  her  is  widely  known  to  go  well  past  the  frontier  of 
common-sense;  and  also  upon  the  fact  that  Marian  will 
give  me  the  devil  if  I  don't  do  exactly  as  you  ask.  I 
consider  you  to  abuse  your  power  unconscionably.  I  con 
sider  you  to  be  a  second  Delilah.  However,  since  you 
insist  upon  it,  this  Captain  Audaine  must,  of  course,  be 
spared  the  fate  he  very  richly  merits."  j/f- 

Miss  Allonby  had  seated  herself  beside  a  table  and 
was  pensively  looking  up  at  him.  "Naturally,"  she  said, 
"Marian  and  I,  between  us,  will  badger  you  int6  saving 


ACTORS  ALL  115 


Frank.  I  shall  not  worry,  therefore,  and  I  must  trust  to 
Providence,  I  suppose,  to  arrange  matters  so  that  the 
poor  boy  will  not  catch  his  death  of  cold  in  your  leaky 
gaol  yonder.  And  now  I  would  like  to  be  informed  of 
what  he  has  been  most  unjustly  accused." 

"His  crime,"  the  Duke  retorted,  "is  the  not  unusual 
one  of  being  a  fool.  Oh,  I  am  candid!  All  Jacobites 
are  fools.  We  gave  the  Stuarts  a  fair  trial,  Heaven 
knows,  and  nobody  but  a  fool  would  want  them  back." 

"I  am  not  here  to  discuss  politics,"  a  dignified  Miss 
Allonby  stated,  "but  simply  to  find  out  in  what  way 
Frank  has  been  slandered." 

Ormskirk  lifted  one  eyebrow.  "It  is  not  altogether  a 
matter  of  politics.  Rather,  as  I  see  it,  it  is  a  matter  of 
Under  the  Stuarts  England  was  a  pros- 
the  nations,  lackey  in  turn  to  Spain  and 
Fran  - nd  Italy;  under  the  Guelph  the  Three-per-cents, 
are  to-ftay  at  par.  The  question  as  to  which  is  prefer 
able  thus  resolves  itself  into  a  choice  between  common- 
sense  and  bedlamite  folly.  But,  unhappily,  you  cannot 
argue  with  a  Jacobite:  only  four  years  ago  Cumberland 
and  Hawley  and  I  rode  from  Aberdeen  to  the  Highlands 
and  left  all  the  intervening  country  bare  as  the  palm  of 
your  hand;  I  forget  how  many  Jacobites  we  killed,  but 
evidently  not  enough  to  convince  the  others.  Very  well : 
we  intend  to  have  no  more  such  nonsense,  and  we  must 
settle  this  particular  affair  by  the  simple  device  of  hang 
ing  or  beheading  every  man- Jack  concerned  in  it."  He 
spoke  without  vehemence — rather  regretfully  than  other 
wise. 

Miss^Allonby  was  patient,  yet  resolute  to  keep  to  the 
one  really  important  point.  "But  what  has  Frank  been 


116  GALLANTRY 


accused  of  doing  when  it  never  even  entered  his  head?" 

"He  has  been  conspiring,"  said  the  Duke,  "and  with 
conspicuous  clumsiness.  It  appears,  child,  that  it  was 
their  common  idiocy  which  of  late  brought  together  some 
two  hundred  jpentlemen  in  Lancashire.  Being  every  one 
of  them  mosfTunmitigated  fools,  they  desired  that  sot  at 
Avignon  to  come  over  once  more  and  'take  back  his  own/ 
as  the  saying  is.  He  would  not  stir  without  definite 
assurances.  So  these  men  drew  up  a  petition  pledging 
their  all  to  the  Chevalier's  cause  and — God  help  us! — 
signed  it.  I  protest,"  the  Duke  sighed,  "I  cannot  under 
stand  these  people!  A  couple  of  penstrokes,  you  ob 
serve,  and  there  is  your  life  at  the  mercy  of  chance,  at 
the  disposal  of  a  puff  of  wind  or  the  first  blunderer  who 
stumbles  on  the  paper." 

"Doubtless  that  is  entirely  true,"  said  Miss  Allonby, 
"but  what  about  Frank?" 

Ormskirk  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  began  to  laugh. 
"You  are  an  incomparable  actress,  you  rogue  you.  But 
let  us  be  candid,  for  all  that,  since  as  it  happens  Lord 
Humphrey  is  not  the  only  person  in  my  employ.  What 
occurred  last  night  I  now  partly  know,  and  in  part  guess. 
Degge  played  a  bold  game,  and  your  Captain  gambled 
even  more  impudently, — only  the  stakes,  as  it  to-day 
transpires,  were  of  somewhat  less  importance  than  either 
of  them  surmised.  For  years  Mr.  Vanringham  has  been 
a  Jacobite  emissary ;  now  he  tires  of  it ;  and  so  he  devoted 
the  entire  morning  yesterday  to  making  a  copy  of  this 
absurd  petition." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  said  Miss  Allonby;  and  in  ap 
pearance,  at  least,  she  was  no  whit  disconcerted. 


ACTORS  ALL  117 


"He  carried  only  the  copy.  You  burned  only  the  copy. 
Mr.  Vanringham,  it  develops,  knew  well  enough  what 
that  bungling  Degge  had  been  deputed  to  do,  and  he  pre 
ferred  to  treat  directly  with  Lord  Humphrey's  principal. 
Mr.  Vanringham  is  an  intelligent  fellow.  I  dare  make 
this  assertion,  because  I  am  fresh  from  an  interview  with 
Mr.  Vanringham,"  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  ended,  and 
allowed  himself  a  reminiscent  chuckle. 

She  had  risen.  "O  ungenerous!  this  Vanringham  has 
been  bribed!" 

"I  pray  you,"  said  the  Duke,  "give  vent  to  no  such 
scandal.  Vanringham's  life  would  not  be  worth  a  farth 
ing  if  he  had  done  such  a  thing,  and  he  knows  it.  Nay, 
I  have  planned  it  more  neatly.  To-night  Mr.  Vanring 
ham  will  be  arrested — merely  on  suspicion,  mind  you, — 
and  all  his  papers  will  be  brought  to  me;  and  it  is  pos 
sible  that  among  them  we  may  find  the  petition.  And 
it  is  possible  that,  somehow,  when  he  is  tried  with  the 
others,  Mr.  Vanringham  alone  may  be  acquitted.  And 
it  is  possible  that  an  aunt — in  Wales,  say, — may  die  about 
this  time  and  leave  him  a  legacy  of  some  five  thousand 
pounds.  Oh,  yes,  all  this  is  quite  possible,"  said  the 
Duke;  "but  should  we  therefore  shriek  Bribery?  For 
my  own  part,  I  esteem  Mr.  Vanringham,  as  the  one  sen 
sible  man  in  the  two  hundred." 

"He  has  turned  King's  evidence,"  she  said,  "and  his 
papers  will  be  brought  to  you — "  Miss  Allonby  paused. 
"All  his  papers!"  said  Miss  Allonby. 

"And  very  curious  they  will  prove,  no  doubt,"  said  his 
Grace.  "So  many  love-sick  misses  write  to  actors.  I 
can  assure  you,  child,  I  look  forward  with  a  deal  of  in- 


118  GALLANTRY 


terest  to  my  inspection  of  Mr.  Vanringham's  correspon 
dence." 

"Eh?— Oh,  yes!"  Miss  Allonby  assented— "all  his  pa 
pers!  Yes,  they  should  be  diverting.  I  must  be  going 
home  though,  to  make  ready  for  Lady  Mackworth's  ball. 
And  if  I  have  nobody  to  dance  with  me,  I  shall  know 
quite  well  whose  fault  it  is.  How  soon  will  Frank  be 
freed,  you  odious  tyrant?" 

"My  child,  but  in  these  matters  we  are  all  slaves  to 
red  tape!  I  can  promise  you,  however,  that  your  Cap 
tain  will  be  released  from  prison  before  this  month  is 
out,  so  you  are  not  to  worry." 

Ill 

When  she  had  left  him  the  Duke  sat  for  a  while  in 
meditation. 

"That  is  an  admirable  girl.  I  would  I  could  oblige 
her  in  the  matter  and  let  this  Audaine  live.  But  such 
folly  is  out  of  the  question.  The  man  is  the  heart  of 
the  conspiracy. 

"No,  Captain  Audaine,  I  am  afraid  we  must  have  that 
handsome  head  of  yours,  and  set  your  spirit  free  before 
this  month  is  out.  And  your  head  also,  Mr.  Vanring- 
ham,  when  we  are  done  with  using  your  evidence.  This 
affair  must  be  the  last;  hitherto  we  have  tried  leniency, 
and  it  has  failed;  now  we  will  try  extermination.  Not 
one  of  these  men  must  escape. 

"I  shall  have  trouble  with  Marian,  since  the  two  girls 
are  inseparable.  Yes,  this  Audaine  will  cause  me  some 
trouble  with  Marian.  I  heartily  wish  the  fellow  had 
never  been  born." 


ACTORS  ALL  119 


Ormskirk  took  a  miniature  from  his  pocket  and  sat 
thus  in  the  dusk  regarding  it.  It  was  the  portrait  of  a 
young  girl  with  hazel  eyes  and  abundant  hair  the  color 
of  a  dead  oak-leaf.  And  now  his  sleepy  face  was  curi 
ously  moved. 

"I  shall  have  to  He  to  you.  And  you  will  believe  me, 
for  you  are  not  disastrously  clever.  But  I  wish  it  were 
not  necessary,  my  dear.  I  wish  it  were  possible  to  make 
you  understand  that  my  concern  is  to  save  England  rather 
than  a  twopenny  captain.  As  it  is,  I  shall  lie  to  you, 
and  you  will  believe.  And  Dorothy  will  get  over  it  in 
time,  as  one  gets  over  everything  in  time.  But  I  wish  it 
were  not  necessary,  sweetheart. 

"I  Wibh.  ...  I  wish  that  I  were  not  so  happy  when  I 
think  of  you.  I  become  so  happy  that  I  grow  afraid. 
It  is  not  right  that  anyone  should  be  so  happy. 

"Bah !     I  am  probably  falling  into  my  dotage." 

Ormskirk  struck  upon  the  gong.  "And  now,  Mr. 
Langton,  let  us  get  back  to  business/' 

IV 

Later  in  the  afternoon  Miss  Allonby  demanded  of  her 
maid  if  Gerald  Allonby  were  within,  and  received  a  neg 
ative  response.  "Nothing  could  be  better,"  said  Miss 
Allonby.  "You  know  that  new  suit  of  Master  Gerald's, 
Lottrum — the  pink-and-silver  ?  Very  well ;  then  you  will 
do  thus,  and  thus,  and  thus — "  And  she  poured  forth 
a  series  of  directions  that  astonished  her  maid  not  a 
little. 

"Law  you  now!"  said  Lottrum,  "whatever — ?" 

"If  you  ask  me  any  questions,"  said  Dorothy,  "I  will 


120  GALLANTRY 


discharge  you  on  the  spot.  And  if  you  betray  me,  I 
shall  probably  kill  you." 

Lottrum  said,  "O  Gemini !"  and  did  as  her  mistress 
ordered. 

Miss  Allonby  made  a  handsome  boy,  and  such  was  her 
one  comfort.  Her  mirror  showed  an  epicene  denizen  of 
romance, — Rosalind  or  Bellario,  a  frail  and  lovely  trav 
esty  of  boyhood;  but  it  is  likely  that  the  girl's  heart 
showed  stark  terror.  Here  was  imminent  no  jaunt  into 
Arden,  but  into  the  gross  jaws  of  even  bodily  destruc 
tion.  Here  was  probable  dishonor,  a  guaranteeable  death. 
She  could  fence  well  enough,  thanks  to  many  bouts  with 
Gerald;  but  when  the  foils  were  unbuttoned,  there  was 
a  difference  which  the  girl  could  appreciate. 

"In  consequence,"  said  Dorothy,  "I  had  better  hurry 
before  I  am  still  more  afraid." 


V 


So  there  came  that  evening,  after  dusk,  to  Mr.  Francis 
Vanringham's  apartments,  at  the  Three  Gudgeons,  a 
young  spark  in  pink-and-silver.  He  appeared  startled  at 
the  sight  of  so  much  company,  recovered  his  composure 
with  a  gulp,  and  presented  himself  to  the  assembled  gen 
tlemen  as  Mr.  Osric  Allonby,  unexpectedly  summoned 
from  Cambridge,  and  in  search  of  his  brother,  Squire 
Gerald.  At  his  step-mother's  villa  they  had  imagined 
Gerald  might  be  spending  the  evening  with  Mr.  Vanring- 
ham.  Mr.  Osric  Allonby  apologized  for  the  intrusion  ; 
was  their  humble  servant ;  and  with  a  profusion  of 
congees  made  as  though  to  withdraw. 

Mr.    Vanringham    lounged    forward.     The    comedian 


ACTORS  ALL  121 


had  a  vogue  among  the  younger  men,  since  at  all 
games  of  chance  they  found  him  untiring  and  tolerably 
honest;  and  his  apartments  were,  in  effect,  a  gambling 
parlor. 

Vanringham  now  took  the  boy's  hand  very  genially. 
"You  have  somewhat  the  look  of  your  sister,"  he  ob 
served,  after  a  prolonged  appraisal;  "though,  in  nature, 
'tis  not  expected  of  us  trousered  folk  to  be  so  beautiful. 
And  by  your  leave,  you'll  not  quit  us  thus  unceremoni 
ously,  Master  Osric.  I  am  by  way  of  being  a  friend  of 
your  brother's,  and  'tis  more  than  possible  that  he  may 
during  the  evening  honor  us  with  his  presence.  Will  you 
not  linger  awhile  on  the  off-chance  ?"  And  Osric  Allonby 
admitted  he  had  no  other  engagements. 

He  was  in  due  form  made  known  to  the  three  gentle 
men — Colonel  Denstroude,1  Mr.  Babington-Herle,  and 
Sir  Gresley  Carne — who  sat  over  a  bowl  of  punch.  Sir 
Gresley  was  then  permitted  to  conclude  the  narrative 
which  Mr.  Allonby's  entrance  had  interrupted :  the  even 
ing  previous,  being  a  little  tipsy,  Sir  Gresley  had  strolled 
about  Tunbrklge  in  search  of  recreation  and,  with  per 
haps  excessive  playfulness,  had  slapped  a  passer-by, 
broken  the  fellow's  nose,  and  gouged  both  thumbs  into 
the  rascal's  eyes.  The  young  baronet  conceded  the  intro 
duction  of  these  London  pastimes  into  the  rural  quiet  of 
Tunbridge  to  have  been  an  error  in  taste,  especially  as 
the  man  proved  upon  inquiry  to  be  a  respectable  haber 
dasher  and  the  sole  dependence  of  four  children;  and 
having  thus  unfortunately  blinded  the  little  tradesman, 

1  He  and  Vanringham  had  just  been  reconciled  by  Molly  Yates' 
elopement  with  Tom  Stoach,  the  Colonel's  footman.  Garendon 
has  a  curious  anecdote  concerning  this  lady,  apropos  of  his  no 
torious  duel  with  Denstroude,  in  '61. 


122  GALLANTRY 


Sir  Gresley  wished  to  ask  of  the  assembled  company  what 
in  their  opinion  was  a  reasonable  reparation.  "For  I 
sincerely  regret  the  entire  affair,"  Sir  Gresley  concluded, 
"and  am  desirous  to  follow  a  course  approvable  by  all 
men  of  honor." 

"Heyho!"  said  Mr.  Vanringham,  "I'm  afraid  the  rape 
of  both  eyes  was  a  trifle  extreme;  for  by  ordinary  a 
haberdasher  is  neither  a  potato  nor  an  Argus,  and,  re 
membering  that,  even  the  high  frivolity  of  brandy-and- 
water  should  have  respected  his  limitations." 

The  hands  of  Mr.  Allonby  had  screened  his  face  dur 
ing  the  recital.  "Oh,  the  poor  man!"  he  said.  "I  can 
not  bear — "  And  then,  with  swift  alteration,  he  tossed 
back  his  head,  and  laughed.  "Are  we  gentlemen  to  be 
denied  all  amusement?  Sir  Gresley  acted  quite  within 
his  privilege,  and  in  terming  him  severe  you  have  lied, 
Mr.  Vanringham.  I  repeat,  sir,  you  have  lied !" 

Vanringham  was  on  his  feet  within  the  instant,  but 
Colonel  Denstroude,  who  sat  beside  him,  laid  a  heavy 
hand  upon  Vanringham's  arm.  "  'Oons,  man,"  says  the 
Colonel,  "infanticide  is  a  crime." 

The  actor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Doubtless  you  are 
in  the  right,  Mr.  Allonby,"  he  said ;  "though,  as  you  were 
of  course  going  on  to  remark,  you  express  yourself  some 
what  obscurely.  Your  meaning,  I  take  it,  is  that  I 
mayn't  criticise  the  doings  of  my  guests?  I  stand  cor 
rected,  and  concede  Sir  Gresley  acted  with  commendable 
moderation,  and  that  Cambridge  is,  beyond  question,  the 
paramount  expositor  of  morals  and  manners." 

The  lad  stared  about  him  with  a  bewildered  face. 
"La,  will  he  not  fight  me  now?"  he  demanded  of  Colonel 
Denstroude, — "now,  after  I  have  called  him  a  liar?" 


ACTORS  ALL  123 


"My  dear,"  the  Colonel  retorted,  "he  may  possibly  de 
prive  you  of  your  nursing-bottle,  or  he  may  even  birch 
you,  but  he  will  most  assuredly  not  fight  you,  so  long  as 
I  have  any  say  in  the  affair.  I*  cod,  we  are  all  friends 
here,  I  hope.  D'ye  think  Mr.  Vanringham  has  so  often 
enacted  Richard  III.  that  to  strangle  infants  is  habitual 
with  him?  Fight  you,  indeed!  'Sdeath  and  devils!" 
roared  the  Colonel,  "I  will  cut  the  throat  of  any  man 
who  dares  to  speak  of  fighting  in  this  amicable  company ! 
Gi'me  some  more  punch,"  said  the  Colonel. 

And  thereupon  in  silence  Mr.  Allonby  resumed  his 
seat. 

Now,  to  relieve  the  somewhat  awkward  tension,  Mr. 
Vanringham  cried:  "So  being  neighborly  again,  let  us 
think  no  more  of  the  recent  difference  in  opinion.  Pay 
your  damned  haberdasher  what  you  like,  Gresley;  or, 
rather,  let  Osric  here  fix  the  remuneration.  I  confess  to 
all  and  sundry,"  he  added,  with  a  smile,  "that  I  daren't 
say  another  word  in  the  matter.  Frankly,  I'm  afraid  of 
this  youngster.  He  breathes  fire  like  y£tna." 

"He  is  a  lad  of  spirit,"  said  Mr.  Babington-Herle,  with 
an  extreme  sobriety.  "He's  a  lad  eshtrornary  spirit. 
Let's  have  game  hazard." 

"Agreed,  good  sir,"  said  Vanringham,  "and  I  warn 
you,  you  will  find  me  a  daring  antagonist.  I  had  to-day 
an  extraordinary — the  usual  prejudice,  my  dear  Herle, 
is,  I  believe,  somewhat  inclined  to  that  pronunciation  of 
the  word, — the  most  extraordinary  windfall.  I  am  rich, 
and  I  protest  King  Croesus  himself  sha'n't  intimidate  me 
to-night.  Come!"  he  cried,  and  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  plump  purse  and  emptied  its  contents  upon  the  table; 
"come,  lay  your  wager!" 


124  GALLANTRY 


"Hell  and  furies,"  the  Colonel  groaned,  "there's  that 
tomfool  boy  again !  Gi'me  some  more  punch." 

For  Osric  Allonby  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  had  swept 
the  littered  gold  and  notes  toward  him.  He  stood  thus, 
his  pink-tipped  fingers  caressing  the  money,  while  his 
eyes  fixed  those  of  Mr.  Vanringham.  "And  the  chief 
priests,"  observed  Osric  Allonby,  "took  the  silver  pieces 
and  said,  'It  is  not  lawful  for  to  put  them  into  the 
treasury,  because  it  is  the  price  of  blood.'  Are  they,  then, 
fit  to  be  touched  by  gentlemen,  Mr. — ah,  but  I  forget  your 
given  name?" 

Vanringham,  too,  had  risen,  his  face  changed.  "My 
sponsors  in  baptism  were  pleased  to  christen  me  Francis." 

"I  entreat  your  pardon,"  the  boy  drawled,  "but  I  have 
the  oddest  fancies.  I  had  thought  it  was  Judas."  And 
so  they  stood,  warily  regarding  each  the  other,  very  much 
as  strange  dogs  are  wont  to  do  at  meeting. 

"Boy  is  drunk,"  Mr.  Babington-Herle  explained  at 
large,  "and  presents  to  pitying  eye  of  disinterested  spec 
tator  most  deplorable  results  incidental  to  combination 
of  immaturity  and  brandy.  As  to  money,  now,  in  Sueto 
nius — "  And  he  launched  upon  a  hiccough-punctuated 
anecdote  of  Vespasian,  which  to  record  here  is  not  con 
venient.  "And  moral  of  it  is,"  Mr.  Babington-Herle 
perorated,  "that  all  money  is  always  fine  thing  to  have. 
Non  olet!  Classical  scholar,  by  Jove!  Now  let's  have 
game  hazard." 

Meanwhile  those  two  had  stood  like  statues.  Vanring 
ham  seemed  half-frightened,  half  persuaded  that  this  un 
accountable  boy  spoke  at  random.  Talk,  either  way,  the 
actor  knew,  was  dangerous.  .  .  . 

"I  ask  your  forgiveness,  gentlemen,"  said  Francis  Van- 


ACTORS  ALL  125 


ringham,  "but  I'm  suddenly  ill.  If  you'll  permit  me  to 
retire—" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Babington-Herle;  "late  in  eve 
ning,  as  it  is.  We  will  go, — Colonel  and  old  Carne  and 
I  will  go  kill  watchman.  Persevorate  him,  by  Jove, — 
like  sieve." 

"I  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Vanringham,  withdrawing  up 
the  stairway  toward  his  bedroom.  "I  thank  you.  Mr. 
Allonby,"  he  called,  in  a  firmer  tone,  "you  and  I  have 
had  some  words  together  and  you  were  the  aggressor. 
Oho,  I  think  we  may  pass  it  over.  I  think — " 

Below,  the  four  gentlemen  were  unhooking  their 
swords  from  the  wall.  Mr.  Allonby  now  smiled  with 
cherubic  sweetness.  "I,  too,"  said  he,  "think  that  all  our 
differences  might  be  arranged  by  ten  minutes'  private 
talk."  He  came  back,  came  up  the  stairs.  "You  had  left 
your  sword,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Vanringham,  "but  I  fetched 
it,  you  see." 

Vanringham  stared,  his  lips  working  oddly.  "I  am  no 
Siegfried,"  said  he,  "and  ordinarily  my  bedfellow  is  not 
cold  and — deplorable  defect  in  such  capacity! — somewhat 
unsympathetic  steel." 

"But  you  forget,"  the  boy  urged,  "that  the  room  is 
public.  And  see,  the  hilt  is  set  with  jewels.  Ah,  Mr. 
Vanringham,  let  us  beware  how  we  lead  others  into  temp 
tation — "  The  door  closed  behind  them. 


VI 


Said  Mr.  Babington-Herle,  judicially,  "That's  eshtror- 
nary  boy — most  eshtrornary  boy,  and  precisely  unlike 
brother." 


126  GALLANTRY 


"You  must  remember/*  the  Colonel  pointed  out,  "that 
since  his  marriage  Gerald  is  a  reformed  man;  he  has 
quite  given  up  punks  and  hazard,  they  say,  for  beer  and 
cattle-raising." 

"Well,  but  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  have  a  spirited  tall  rogue 
turn  pimp  to  bulls  and  rams,  and  Mrs.  Lascelles  will  be 
inconsolable,"  Sir  Gresley  considered. — "Hey,  what's 
that  ?  Did  you  not  hear  a  noise  up-stairs  ?" 

"I  do  not  think,"  said  the  Colonel,  "that  Mallison  finds 
her  so. — Yes,  i'cod !  I  suppose  that  tipsy  boy  has  turned 
over  a  table." 

"But  you  astound  me,"  Sir  Gresley  interrupted.  "The 
constant  Mallison,  of  all  persons !" 

"Nevertheless,  my  dear,  they  assure  me  that  he  has 
made  over  to  her  the  heart  and  lodgings  until  lately  oc 
cupied  by  Mrs.  Roydon — Oh,  the  devil!"  cried  Colonel 
Denstroude,  "they  are  fighting  above !" 

"Good  for  Frank!"  observed  Mr.  Babington-Herle. 
"Hip-hip!  Stick  young  rascal!  Persevorate  him,  by 
Jove!" 

But  the  other  men  had  run  hastily  up  the  stairway  and 
were  battering  at  the  door  of  Vanringham's  chamber. 
"Locked !"  said  the  Colonel.  "Oh,  the  unutterable  cur ! 
Open,  open,  I  tell  you,  Vanringham!  By  God,  I'll  have 
your  blood  for  this  if  you  have  hurt  the  boy !" 

"Break  in  the  door!"  said  a  voice  from  below.  The 
Colonel  paused  in  his  objurgations,  and  found  that  the 
Duke  of  Ormskirk,  followed  by  four  attendants,  had 
entered  the  hallway  of  the  Three  Gudgeons.  "Benyon," 
said  the  Duke,  more  sharply,  and  wheeled  upon  his  men, 
"you  have  had  my  orders,  I  believe.  Break  in  yonder 
door!" 


ACTORS  ALL  127 


This  was  done.  They  found  Mr.  Francis  Vanringham 
upon  the  hearthrug  a  tousled  heap  of  flesh  and  finery,  in 
sensible,  with  his  mouth  gaping,  in  a  great  puddle  of 
blood.  To  the  rear  of  the  room,  was  a  boy  in  pink-and- 
silver,  beside  the  writing-desk  he  had  just  got  into  with 
the  era-operation  of  a  poker.  Hugged  to  his  breast  he 
held  a  brown  despatch-box. 

Ormskirk  strode  toward  the  boy  and  with  an  inhala 
tion  paused.  The  Duke  stood  tense  for  a  moment. 
Then  silently  he  knelt  beside  the  prostrate  actor  and  in 
spected  Vanringham's  injury.  "You  have  killed  him," 
the  Duke  said  at  last. 

"I  think  so,"  said  the  boy.     "But  'twas  in  fair  fight." 

The  Duke  rose.  "Benyon,"  he  rapped  out,  "do  you 
and  Minchin  take  this  body  to  the  room  below.  Let  a 
surgeon  be  sent  for.  Bring  word  if  he  find  any  sign  of 
life.  Gentlemen,  I  must  ask  you  to  avoid  the  chamber. 
This  is  a  state  matter.  I  am  responsible  for  yonder  per 
son." 

"Then  your  Grace  is  responsible  for  perfectly  irre 
sponsible  young  villain!"  said  Mr.  Babington-Herle. 
"He's  murderer  Frank  Vanringham,  of  poor  dear  Frank, 
like  a  brother  to  me,  by  Jove !  Hang  him  high's  Haman, 
your  Grace,  and  then  we'll  have  another  bottle." 

"Colonel  Denstroude,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  will  ask  you 
to  assist  your  friend  in  retiring.  The  stairs  are  steep, 
and  his  conviviality,  I  fear,  has  by  a  pint  or  so  exceeded 
his  capacity.  And  in  fine — I  wish  you  a  good-evening, 
gentlemen." 


128  GALLANTRY 


VII 


Ormskirk  closed  the  door;  then  he  turned.  "I  lack 
words,"  the  Duke  said.  "Oh,  believe  me,  speech  fails 
before  this  spectacle.  To  find  you,  here,  at  this  hour! 
To  find  you — my  betrothed  wife's  kinswoman  and  life 
long  associate, — here,  in  this  garb !  A  slain  man  at  your 
feet,  his  blood  yet  reeking  upon  that  stolen  sword !  His 
papers — pardon  me !" 

Ormskirk  sprang  forward  and  caught  the  despatch-box 
from  her  grasp  as  she  strove  to  empty  its  contents  into 
the  fire.  "Pardon  me,"  he  repeated ;  "you  have  unsexed 
yourself ;  do  not  add  high  treason  to  the  list  of  your  mis 
demeanors.  Mr.  Vanringham's  papers,  as  I  have  pre 
viously  had  the  honor  to  inform  you,  are  the  state's 
property." 

She  stood  with  void  and  inefficient  hands  that  groped 
vaguely.  "I  could  trust  no  one,"  she  said.  "I  have 
fenced  so  often  with  Gerald.  I  was  not  afraid — at  least, 
I  was  not  very  much  afraid.  And  'twas  so  difficult  to 
draw  him  into  a  quarrel, — he  wanted  to  live,  because  at 
last  he  had  the  money  his  dirty  little  soul  had  craved. 
Ah,  I  had  sacrificed  so  many  things  to  get  these  papers, 
my  Lord  Duke, — and  now  you  rob  me  of  them.  You !" 

The  Duke  bent  pitiless  brows  upon  her.  "I  rob  you 
of  them,"  he  said, — "ay,  I  am  discourteous  and  I  rob, 
but  not  for  myself  alone.  For  your  confusion  tells  me 
that  I  hold  here  between  my  hands  the  salvation  of  Eng 
land.  Child,  child!"  he  cried,  in  sudden  tenderness,  "I 
trusted  you  to-day,  and  could  you  not  trust  me?  I 
promised  you  the  life  of  the  man  you  love.  I  promised 


ACTORS  ALL  129 


you — "  He  broke  off,  as  if  in  a  rivalry  of  rage  and 
horror.  "And  you  betrayed  me!  You  came  hither, 
trousered  and  shameless,  to  save  these  harebrained 
traitors!  Well,  but  at  worst  your  treachery  has  very 
happily  released  me  from  my  promise  to  meddle  in  the 
fate  of  this  Audaine.  I  shall  not  lift  a  finger  now.  And 
I  warn  you  that  within  the  week  your  precious  Captain 
will  have  become  the  associate  of  seraphim." 

She  had  heard  him,  with  defiant  eyes;  her  head  was 
flung  back  and  she  laughed.  "You  thought  I  had  come 
to  destroy  the  Jacobite  petition !  Heavens,  what  had  I  to 
do  with  all  such  nonsense?  You  had  promised  me 
Frank's  pardon,  and  the  other  men  I  had  never  seen. 
Harkee,  my  Lord  Duke,  do  all  you  politicians  jump  so 
wildly  in  your  guess  work  ?  Did  you  in  truth  believe  that 
the  poor  fool  who  lies  dead  below  would  have  entrusted 
the  paper  which  meant  life  and  wealth  to  the  keeping  of 
a  flimsy  despatch-box  ?" 

"Indeed,  no,"  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  replied,  and  ap 
peared  a  thought  abashed;  "I  was  certain  it  would  be 
concealed  somewhere  about  his  person,  and  I  have  al 
ready  given  Benyon  orders  to  search  for  it.  Still,  I  con 
fess  that  for  the  moment  your  agitation  misled  me  into 
believing  these  were  the  important  papers;  and  I  admit, 
my  dear  creature,  that  unless  you  came  hither  prompted 
by  a  mad  design  somehow  to  destroy  the  incriminating 
documents  and  thereby  to  ensure  your  lover's  life — why, 
otherwise,  I  repeat,  I  am  quite  unable  to  divine  your 
motive." 

She  was  silent  for  a  while.  Presently,  "You  told  me 
this  afternoon,"  she  began,  in  a  dull  voice,  "that  you 
anticipated  much  amusement  from  your  perusal  of  Mr. 


130  GALLANTRY 


Vanringham's  correspondence.  All  his  papers  were  to 
be  seized,  you  said ;  and  they  all  were  to  be  brought 
to  you,  you  said.  And  so  many  love-sick  misses  write  to 
actors,  you  said." 

"As  I  recall  the  conversation,"  his  Grace  conceded, 
"that  which  you  have  stated  is  quite  true."  He  spoke 
with  admirable  languor,  but  his  countenance  was  vaguely 
troubled. 

And  now  the  girl  came  to  him  and  laid  her  finger-tips 
ever  so  lightly  upon  his.  "Trust  me,"  she  pleaded. 
"Give  me  again  the  trust  I  have  not  merited.  Ay,  in 
spite  of  reason,  my  Lord  Duke,  restore  to  me  these 
papers  unread,  that  I  may  destroy  them.  For  otherwise, 
I  swear  to  you  that  without  gain  to  yourself — without 
gain,  O  God ! — you  wreck  alike  the  happiness  of  an  in 
nocent  woman  and  of  an  honest  gentleman.  And  other 
wise —  O  infatuate !"  she  wailed,  and  wrung  impotent 
hands. 

But  Ormskirk  shook  his  head.  "I  cannot  leap  in  the 
dark." 

She  found  no  comfort  in  his  face,  and  presently 
lowered  her  eyes.  He  remained  motionless.  The  girl 
went  to  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment,  and  then,  her 
form  straightening  on  a  sudden,  turned  and  came  back 
toward  him. 

"I  think  God  has  some  grudge  against  you,"  Dorothy 
said,  without  any  emotion,  "and  hardens  your  heart,  as 
of  old  He  hardened  Pharaoh's  heart,  to  your  own  de 
struction.  I  have  done  my  utmost  to  save  you.  My 
woman's  modesty  I  have  put  aside,  and  death  and  worse 
than  death  I  have  dared  to  encounter  to-night, — ah,  my 
Lord,  I  have  walked  through  hell  this  night  for  your  sake 


ACTORS  ALL  131 


and  another's.  And  in  the  end  'tis  yourself  who  rob  me 
of  what  I  had  so  nearly  gained.  Beyond  doubt  God  has 
some  grudge  against  you.  Take  your  fate,  then." 

"Integer  vita — "  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk ;  and  with 
more  acerbity,  "Go  on!"  For  momentarily  she  had 
paused. 

"The  man  who  lies  dead  below  was  loved  by  many 
women.  God  pity  them!  But  women  are  not  sensible 
like  men,  you  know.  And  always  the  footlights  made 
a  halo  about  him;  and  when  you  saw  him  as  Castalio  or 
Romeo,  all  beauty  and  love  and  vigor  and  nobility,  how 
was  a  woman  to  understand  his  splendor  was  a  sham, 
taken  off  with  his  wig,  removed  with  his  pinchbeck 
jewelry,  and  as  false?  No,  they  thought  it  native,  poor 
wretches.  Yet  one  of  them  at  least,  my  Lord — a  young 
girl — found  out  her  error  before  it  was  too  late.  The 
man  was  a  villain  through  and  through.  God  grant  he 
sups  in  hell  to-night !" 

"Go  on,"  said  Ormskirk.  But  by  this  time  he  knew 
all  that  she  had  to  tell. 

"Afterward  he  demanded  money  of  her.  He  had 
letters,  you  understand — mad,  foolish  letters, — and  these 
he  offered  to  sell  back  to  her  at  his  own  price.  And  their 
publicity  meant  ruin.  And,  my  Lord,  we  had  so  nearly 
saved  the  money — pinching  day  by  day,  a  little  by  a  little, 
for  his  price  was  very  high,  and  it  was  necessary  the  sum 
be  got  in  secrecy, — and  tliat  in  the  end  they  should  be  read 
by  you — "  Her  voice  broke. 

"Go  on,"  said  Ormskirk. 

But  her  composure  was  shattered.  "I  would  have 
given  my  life  to  save  her,"  the  girl  babbled.  "Ah,  you 
know  that  I  have  tried  to  save  her.  I  was  not  very 


132  GALLANTRY 


much  afraid.  And  it  seemed  the  only  way.  So  I  came 
hither,  my  Lord,  as  you  see  me,  to  get  back  the  letters 
before  you,  too,  had  come." 

"There  is  but  one  woman  in  the  world,"  the  Duke  said, 
quietly,  "for  whom  you  would  have  done  this  thing. 
You  and  Marian  were  reared  together.  Always  you 
have  been  inseparable,  always  you  have  been  to  each 
other  as  sisters.  Is  this  not  what  you  are  about  to  tell 
me?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Well,  you  may  spare  yourself  the  pains  of  such  un 
profitable  lying.  That  Marian  Heleigh  should  have  been 
guilty  of  a  vulgar  liaison  with  an  actor  is  to  me,  who 
know  her,  unthinkable.  No,  madam !  It  was  fear,  not 
love,  which  drove  you  hither  to-night,  and  now  a  baser 
terror  urges  you  to  screen  yourself  by  vilifying  her.  The 
woman  of  whom  you  speak  is  yourself.  The  letters  were 
written  by  you." 

She  raised  one  arm  as  though  a  physical  blow  im 
pended.  "No,  no!"  she  cried. 

"Madam,"  the  Duke  said,  "let  us  have  done  with  these 
dexterities.  I  have  the  vanity  to  believe  I  am  not  un 
reasonably  obtuse — nor,  I  submit,  unreasonably  self- 
righteous.  Love  is  a  monstrous  force,  as  irrational,  I 
sometimes  think,  as  the  force  of  the  thunderbolt;  it  ap 
pears  neither  to  select  nor  to  eschew,  but  merely  to  strike ; 
and  it  is  not  my  duty  to  asperse  or  to  commend  its  victims. 
You  have  loved  unworthily.  From  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  I  pity  you,  and  I  would  that  you  had  trusted  me — 
had  trusted  me  enough — "  His  voice  was  not  quite 
steady.  "Ah,  my  dear,"  said  Ormskirk,  "you  should 
have  confided  all  to  me  this  afternoon.  It  hurts  me  that 


ACTORS  ALL  133 


you  did  not,  for  I  am  no  Pharisee  and — God  knows! — 
my  own  past  is  not  immaculate.  I  would  have  under 
stood,  I  think.  Yet  as  it  is,  take  back  your  letters,  child, 
— nay,  in  Heaven's  name,  take  them  in  pledge  of  an  old 
man's  love  for  Dorothy  Allonby." 

The  girl  obeyed,  turning  them  in  her  hands,  the  while 
that  her  eyes  were  riveted  to  Ormskirk's  face.  And  in 
Aprilian  fashion  she  began  to  smile  through  her  tears. 
"You  are  superb,  my  Lord  Duke.  You  comprehend  that 
Marian  wrote  these  letters,  and  that  if  you  read  them — 
and  I  Jcnew  of  it, — your  pride  would  force  you  to  break 
off  the  match,  because  your  notions  as  to  what  is  be 
fitting  in  a  Duchess  of  Ormskirk  are  precise.  But  you 
want  Marian,  you  want  her  even  more  than  I  had  feared. 
Therefore,  you  give  me  all  these  letters,  because  you 
know  that  I  will  destroy  them,  and  thus  an  inconvenient 
knowledge  will  be  spared  you.  Oh,  beyond  doubt,  you 
are  superb." 

"I  give  them  to  you,"  Ormskirk  answered,  "because  I 
have  seen  through  your  cowardly  and  clumsy  lie,  and 
have  only  pity  for  a  thing  so*  base  as  you.  I  give  them 
to  you  because  to  read  one  syllable  of  their  contents  would 
be  to  admit  I  had  some  faith  in  your  preposterous  fabri 
cation." 

But  she  shook  her  head.  "Words,  words,  my  Lord 
Duke !  I  understand  you  to  the  marrow.  And,  in  part, 
I  think  that  I  admire  you." 

He  was  angry  now.  "Eh !  for  the  love  of  God,"  cried 
the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  "let  us  burn  the  accursed  things 
and  have  no  more  verbiage !"  He  seized  the  papers  and 
flung  them  into  the  fire. 

Then  these  two  watched  the  papers  consume  to  ashes, 


134  GALLANTRY 


and  stood  a  while  in  silence,  the  gaze  of  neither  lifting 
higher  than  the  andirons;  and  presently  there  was  a  tap 
ping  at  the  door. 

"That  will  be  Benyon,"  the  Duke  said,  with  careful 
modulations.  "Enter,  man !  What  news  is  there  of  this 
Vanringham  ?" 

"He  will  recover,  your  Grace,  though  he  has  lost  much 
blood.  Mr.  Vanringham  has  regained  consciousness  and 
took  occasion  to  whisper  me  your  Grace  would  find  the 
needful  papers  in  his  escritoire,  in  the  brown  despatch- 
box." 

"That  is  well,"  the  Duke  retorted.  "You  may  go, 
Benyon."  And  when  the  door  had  closed,  he  began  in 
curiously  :  "Then  you  are  not  a  murderess  at  least,  Miss 
Allonby.  At  least — "  He  made  a  queer  noise  as  he 
gazed  at  the  despatch-box  in  his  hand.  "The  brown 
box!"  It  fell  to  the  floor.  Ormskirk  drew  near  to  her, 
staring,  moving  stiffly  like  a  hinged  toy.  "I  must  have 
the  truth,"  he  said,  without  a  trace  of  any  human  passion. 
This  was  the  Ormskirk  men  had  known  in  Scotland. 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  "they  were  the  Jacobite  papers. 
You  burned  them." 

"I!"  said  the  Duke. 

Presently  he  said :  "Do  you  not  understand  what  this 
farce  has  cost?  Thanks  to  you,  I  have  no  iota  of  proof 
against  these  men.  I  cannot  touch  these  rebels.  O 
madam,  I  pray  Heaven  that  you  have  not  by  this  night's 
trickery  destroyed  England!" 

"I  did  it  to  save  the  man  I  love,"  she  proudly  said. 

"I  had  promised  you  his  life." 

"But  would  you  have  kept  that  promise  ?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  simply. 


ACTORS  ALL  135 


"Then  are  we  quits,  my  Lord.  You  lied  to  me,  and  I 
to  you.  Oh,  I  know  that  were  I  a  man  you  would  kill 
me  within  the  moment.  But  you  respect  my  woman 
hood.  Ah,  goodness !"  the  girl  cried,  shrilly,  "what  very 
edifying  respect  for  womanhood  have  you,  who  burned 
those  papers  because  you  believed  my  dearest  Marian  had 
stooped  to  a  painted  mountebank !" 

"I  burned  them — yes,  in  the  belief  that  I  was  saving 
you." 

She  laughed  in  his  face.  "You  never  believed  that, — 
not  for  an  instant." 

But  by  this  time  Ormskirk  had  regained  his  composure. 
"The  hour  is  somewhat  late,  and  the  discussion — if  you 
will  pardon  the  suggestion, — not  likely  to  be  profitable. 
The  upshot  of  the  whole  matter  is  that  I  am  now  power 
less  to  harm  anybody — I  submit  the  simile  of  the  fangless 
snake, — and  that  Captain  Audaine  will  have  his  release  in 
the  morning.  Accordingly  you  will  now  permit  me  to 
wish  you  a  pleasant  night's  rest.  Benyon!"  he  called, 
"you  will  escort  Mr.  Osric  Allonby  homeward.  I  remain 
to  clear  up  this  affair." 

He  held  open  the  door  for  her,  and,  bowing,  stood  aside 
that  she  might  pass. 

VIII 

But  afterward  the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk  continued 
for  a  long  while  motionless  and  faintly  smiling  as  he  gazed 
into  the  fire.  Tricked  and  ignominiously  defeated !  Ay, 
but  that  was  a  trifle  now,  scarcely  worthy  of  considera 
tion.  The  girl  had  hoodwinked  him,  had  lied  more  skil 
fully  than  he,  yet  in  the  fact  that  she  had  lied  he  found  a 


136  GALLANTRY 


prodigal  atonement.  Whigs  and  Jacobites  might  have 
their  uses  in  the  cosmic  scheme,  he  reflected,  as  house- 
flies  have,  but  what  really  mattered  was  that  at  Halver- 
gate  yonder  Marian  awaited  his  coming.  And  in  place  of 
statecraft  he  fell  to  thinking  of  two  hazel  eyes  and  of 
abundant  hair  the  color  of  a  dead  oak-leaf. 


VI 

APRIL'S  MESSAGE 
As  Played  at  Halvergate  House^  April  9, 1750 

"You  cannot  love,  nor  pleasure  take,  nor  give, 
But  life  begin  when  'tis  too  late  to  live. 
On  a  tired  courser  you  pursue  delight, 
Let  slip  your  morning,  and  set  out  at  night. 
If  you  have  lived,  take  thankfully  the  past; 
Make,  as  you  can,  the  sweet  remembrance  last. 
If  you  have  not  enjoyed  what  youth  could  give, 
But  life  sunk  through  you,  like  a  leaky  sieve!' 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

EARL  OF  BRUDENEL,  father  to  Lady  Marian  Heleigh,  who 

has  retired  sometime  into  the  country. 
LORD  HUMPHREY   DEGGE,   a  gamester,  and  Ormskirk's 

hireling. 
MR.  LANGTON,  secretary  to  Ormskirk. 

LADY  MARIAN  HELEIGH,  betrothed  to  Ormskirk,  a  young, 
beautiful  girl  of  a  mild  and  tender  disposition. 

SCENE 
The  east  terrace  of  Halvergate  House. 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE 

PROEM  .-—Apologia  pro  Auctore 

IT  occurs  to  me  that  we  here  assume  intimacy  with  a 
man  of  unusual  achievement,  and  therefore  tread 
upon  quaggy  premises.  Yet  I  do  but  avail  myself  of 
to-day's  privilege.  .  .  .  It  is  an  odd  thing  that  people  will 
facilely  assent  to  Don  Adriano's  protestation  against  a 
certain  travestying  of  Hector, — "Sweet  chucks,  beat  not 
the  bones  of  the  dead,  for  when  he  breathed  he  was  a 
man," — even  while  through  the  instant  the  tide  of  ro 
mance  will  be  setting  quite  otherwhither,  with  their  con 
donation.  F6r  in  all  the  best  approved  romances  the 
more  sumptuous  persons  of  antiquity  are  very  guilty  of 
twaddle  on  at  least  one  printed  page  in  ten,  and  nobody 
remonstrates ;  and  here  is  John  Bulmer,  too,  lugged  from 
the  grave  for  your  delectation. 

I  presume,  however,  to  palliate  the  offence.  The  curi 
ous  may  find  the  gist  of  what  I  narrate  concerning  Orms- 
kirk  in  Heinrich  Lowe's  biography  of  the  man,  and  will 
there  discover  that  with  established  facts  I  have  not  made 
bold  to  juggle.  Only  when  knowledge  failed  have  I 
bridged  the  void  with  speculation.  Perhaps  I  have 
guessed  wrongly :  the  feat  is  not  unhuman,  and  in  provi 
sion  against  detection  therein  I  can  only  protest  that  this 
lack  of  omniscience  was  never  due  to  malice;  faithfully 
I  have  endeavored  to  deduce  from  the  known  the  prob- 

139 


140  GALLANTRY 


able,  and  in  nothing  to  misrepresent  to  you  this  big  man 
of  a  little  age,  this  trout  among  a  school  of  minnows. 

Trout,  mark  you;  I  claim  for  Ormskirk  no  leviathan- 
ship.  Rather  I  would  remind  you  of  a  passage  from 
somewhat  anterior  memoirs :  "The  Emperor  of  Lilliput 
is  taller,  by  almost  the  breadth  of  my  nail,  than  any  of 
his  court,  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike  an  awe  into  his 
beholders." 

This,  however,  is  not  the  place  to  expatiate  on  Orms- 
kirk's  extraordinary  career;  his  rise  from  penury  and 
obscurity,  tempered  indeed  by  gentle  birth,  to  the  priviest 
secrets  of  his  Majesty's  council, — climbing  the  peerage 
step  by  step  as  though  that  institution  had  been  a  garden- 
ladder, — may  be  read  of  in  the  history  books. 

"I  collect  titles  as  an  entomologist  does  butterflies,"  he 
is  recorded  to  have  said :  "and  I  find  the  gaudier  ones  the 
cheapest.  My  barony  I  got  for  a  very  heinous  piece  of 
perjury,  my  earldom  for  not  running  away  until  the  latter 
end  of  a  certain  battle,  my  marquisate  for  hoodwinking 
a  half-senile  Frenchman,  and  my  dukedom  for  fetching 
in  a  quack  doctor  when  he  was  sore  needed  by  a  lady 
whom  the  King  at  that  time  delighted  to  honor." 

It  was,  you  observe,  a  day  of  candors. 


The  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  then  (one  gleans  from  Lowe's 
pages),  dismissed  from  mind  the  Audaine  conspiracy.  It 
was  a  pity  to  miss  the  salutary  effect  of  a  few  political 
executions  just  then,  but  after  all  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  about  it.  So  the  Duke  turned  to  the  one  consola 
tion  offered  by  the  affair,  and  set  out  for  Halvergate 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  141 

House,  the  home  of  Marian  Heleigh's  father.  There  one 
finds  him,  six  days  later,  deep  in  a  consultation  with  his 
secretary,  which  in  consideration  of  the  unseasonable 
warmth  was  held  upon  the  east  terrace. 

"Yes,  I  think  we  had  better  have  the  fellow  hanged  on 
the  thirteenth,"  said  Ormskirk,  as  he  leisurely  affixed  his 
signature.  "The  date  seems  eminently  appropriate.  Now 
the  papers  concerning  the  French  treaty,  if  you  please, 
Mr.  Langton." 

The  impassive- faced  young  man  who  sat  opposite 
placed  a  despatch-box  between  them.  "These  were  sent 
down  from  London  only  last  night,  sir.  Mr.  Morfit  * 
has  been  somewhat  dilatory." 

"Eh,  it  scarcely  matters.  .1  looked  them  over  in  bed 
this  morning  and  found  them  quite  correct,  Mr.  Langton, 
quite —  Why,  heyday!"  the  Duke  demanded,  "what's 
this?  You  have  brought  me  the  despatch-box  from  my 
dresser — not,  as  I  distinctly  told  you,  from  the  table  by 
my  bed.  Nay,  I  have  had  quite  enough  of  mistakes  con 
cerning  despatch-boxes,  Mr.  Langton." 

Mr.  Langton  stammered  that  the  error  was  natural. 
Two  despatch-boxes  were  in  appearances  so  similar — 

"Never  make  excuses,  Mr.  Langton.  'Qui  s'excuse — ' 
You  can  complete  the  proverb,  I  suppose.  Bring  me 
Morfit's  report  this  afternoon,  then.  Yes,  that  appears 
to  be  all.  You  may  go  now,  Mr.  Langton.  No,  you  may 
leave  that  box,  I  think,  since  it  is  here.  O  man,  man, 
a  mistake  isn't  high  treason!  Go  away,  Mr.  Langton! 
you  annoy  me." 

1  Perhaps  the  most  adroit  of  all  the  many  spies  in  Ormskirk's 
employment.  It  was  this  same  Morfit  who  in  1756  accompanied 
Damiens  into  France  as  far  as  Calais ;  and  see  page  16. 


142  GALLANTRY 


Left  alone,  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  sat  for  a  while,  tap 
ping  his  fingers  irresolutely  against  the  open  despatch- 
box.  He  frowned  a  little,  for,  with  fair  reason  to  believe 
Tom  Langton  his  son,  he  found  the  boy  too  stolid,  too 
unimaginative,  to  go  far.  It  seemed  to  Ormskirk  that 
none  of  his  illegitimate  children  displayed  any  particular 
promise,  and  he  sighed.  Then  he  took  a  paper  from  the 
despatch-box,  and  began  to  read. 

He  sat,  as  one  had  said,  upon  the  east  terrace  of  Halver- 
gate  House.  Behind  him  a  tall  yew-hedge  shut  off  the 
sunlight  from  the  table  where  he  and  Tom  Langton  had 
earlier  completed  divers  businesses ;  in  front  of  him  a 
balustrade,  ivy-covered,  and  set  with  flower-pots  of  stone, 
empty  as  yet,  half  screened  the  terraced  gardens  that  sank 
to  the  artificial  lake  below. 

The  Duke  could  see  only  a  vast  expanse  of  sky  and  a 
stray  bit  of  Halvergate  printing  the  horizon  with  turrets, 
all  sober  gray  save  where  the  two  big  copper  cupolas  of 
the  south  fagade  burned  in  the  April  sun ;  but  by  bending 
forward  you  glimpsed  close-shaven  lawns  dotted  with 
clipped  trees  and  statues, — as  though,  he  reflected,  Glum- 
dalclitch  had  left  her  toys  scattered  haphazard  about  a 
green  blanket, — and  the  white  of  the  broad  marble  stair 
way  descending  to  the  sunlit  lake,  and,  at  times,  the  flash 
of  a  swan's  deliberate  passage  across  the  lake's  surface. 
All  white  and  green  and  blue  the  vista  was,  and  of  a 
monastic  tranquillity,  save  for  the  plashing  of  a  fountain 
behind  the  yew-hedge  and  the  grumblings  of  an  occasional 
bee  that  lurched  complainingly  on  some  by-errand  of  the 
hive. 

Presently  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  replaced  the  papers 
in  the  despatch-box,  and,  leaning  forward,  sighed.  "Non 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  143 

sum  qualis  cram  sub  bones  regno  Cynara,"  said  his  Grace 
of  Ormskirk.  He  had  a  statesman-like  partiality  for  the 
fag-end  of  an  alcaic. 

Then  he  lifted  his  head  at  the  sound  of  a  girl's  voice. 
Somewhere  rearward  to  the  hedge  the  girl  idly  sang — an 
old  song  of  Thomas  Heywood's, — in  a  serene  contralto, 
low-pitched  and  effortless,  but  very  sweet.  Smilingly  the 
Duke  beat  time. 

Sang  the  girl : 

"Pack  clouds  away,  and  welcome,  dayl 
With  night  we  banish  sorrow: 
Sweet  air,  blow  soft;  mount,  lark,  aloft, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow. 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind,       > 
Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow: 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing;  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow." 

And  here  the  Duke  chimed  in  with  a  sufficiently  pleas 
ing  baritone : 

"To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Notes  from  them  all  I'll  borrow." 

"O  heavens!"  spoke  the  possessor  of  the  contralto, 
"I  would  have  thought  you  were  far  too  busy  sending 
people  to  gaol  and  arranging  their  execution,  and  so  on, 
to  have  any  time  for  music.  I  am  going  for  a  walk  in 
the  forest,  Jack."  Considering  for  a  moment,  she  added, 
"You  may  come,  too,  if  you  like." 

But  the  concession  was  made  so  half-heartedly  that  in 
the  instant  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  raised  a  dissenting 
hand.  "I  would  not  annoy  you  for  an  emperor's  ransom. 
Go  in  peace,  my  child." 


144  GALLANTRY 


Lady  Marian  Heleigh  stood  at  an  opening-  in  the  yew- 
hedge  and  regarded  him  for  a  lengthy  interval  in  silence. 
Slender,  men  called  her,  and  women  "a  bean  pole." 
There  was  about  her  a  great  deal  of  the  child  and  some 
thing  of  the  wood-nymph.  She  had  abundant  hair,  the 
color  of  a  dead  oak-leaf,  and  her  skin  was  clear,  with  a 
brown  tinge.  Her  eyes  puzzled  you  by  being  neither 
brown  nor  green  consistently ;  no  sooner  had  you  con 
victed  them  of  verdancy  than  they  shifted  to  the  hue  of 
polished  maple,  and  vice  versa;  but  they  were  too  large 
for*  her  face,  which  narrowed  rather  abruptly  beneath  a 
broad,  low  forehead,  and  they  flavored  her  aspect  with 
the  shrewd  innocence  of  a  kitten.  She  was  by  ordinary 
grave;  but,  animated,  her  countenance  quickened  with 
somewhat  the  glow  of  a  brown  diamond ;  then  her  gen 
erous  eyes  flashed  and  filmed  like  waters  moving  under 
starlight,  then  you  knew  she  was  beautiful.  All  in  all, 
you  saw  in  Marian  a  woman  designed  to  be  petted,  a 
Columbine  rather  than  a  Cleopatra ;  her  lures  would  never 
shake  the  stability  of  a  kingdom,  but  would  inevitably  gut 
its  toy-shops ;  and  her  departure  left  you  meditative  less 
of  high  enterprises  than  of  buying  something  for  her. 

Now  Marian  considered  her  betrothed,  and  seemed  to 
come  at  last  to  a  conclusion  that  skirted  platitude. 
"Jack,  two  people  can  be  fond  of  each  other  without 
wanting  to  be  together  all  the  time.  And  I  really  am 
fond  of  you,  Jack." 

*'I  would  be  a  fool  if  I  questioned  the  first  statement," 
rejoined  the  Duke ;  "and  if  I  questioned  the  second,  very 
miserable.  Nevertheless,  you  go  in  pursuit  of  strange 
gods,  and  I  decline  to  follow." 

Her  eyebrows  interrogated  him. 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  145 

"You  are  going,"  the  Duke  continued,  "in  pursuit  of 
gods  beside  whom  I  esteem  Zidonian  Ashtoreth,  and  Che- 
mosh,  and  Milcom,  the  abomination  of  the  Ammonites, 
to  be  commendable  objects  of  worship.  You  will  pardon 
my  pedantic  display  of  learning,  for  my  feelings  are 
strong.  You  are  going  to  sit  in  the  woods.  You  will 
probably  sit  under  a  youngish  tree,  and  its  branches  will 
sway  almost  to  the  ground  and  make  a  green,  sun-steeped 
tent  about  you,  as  though  you  sat  at  the  heart  of  an 
emerald.  You  will  hear  the  kindly  wood-gods  go  stealth 
ily  about  the  forest,  and  you  will  know  that  they  are 
watching  you,  but  you  will  never  see  them.  From  be 
hind  every  tree-bole  they  will  watch  you ;  you  feel  it,  but 
you  never,  never  quite  see  them.  Presently  the  sweet, 
warm  odors  of  the  place  and  its  perpetual  whispering  and 
the  inimitably  idiotic  boasting  of  the  birds, — that  any 
living  creature  should  be  proud  of  having  constructed 
one  of  their  nasty  little  nests  is  a  reflection  to  baffle  under 
standing, — this  hodge-podge  of  sensations,  I  say,  will  in 
toxicate  you.  Yes,  it  will  thoroughly  intoxicate  you, 
Marian,  and  you  sit  there  quite  still,  in  a  sort  of  stupor, 
drugged  into  the  inebriate's  magnanimity,  firmly  believ 
ing  that  the  remainder  of  your  life  will  be  throughout 
of  finer  texture, — earth-spurning,  free  from  all  pettiness, 
and  at  worst  vexed  only  by  the  noblest  sorrows.  Bah !" 
cried  the  Duke ;  "I  have  no  patience  with  such  nonsense ! 
You  will  believe  it  to  the  tiniest  syllable,  that  wonderful 
lying  message  which  April  whispers  to  every  living  crea 
ture  that  is  young, — then  you  will  return  to  me,  a  slim, 
star-eyed  Maenad,  and  will  see  that  I  am  wrinkled.  But 
do  you  go  your  ways,  none  the  less,  for  April  is  waiting 
for  you  yonder, — beautiful,  mendacious,  splendid  April. 


146  GALLANTRY 


And  I?     Faith,  April  has  no  message  for  me,  my  dear." 
He  laughed,  but  with  a  touch  of  wistfulness;  and  the 
girl  came  to  him,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  surprised 
into  a  sort  of  hesitant  affection. 

"How  did  you  know,  Jack  ?  How  did  you  know  that — 
things,  invisible,  gracious  things,  went  about  the  spring 
woods?  I  never  thought  that  you  knew  of  them.  You 
always  seemed  so  sensible.  I  have  reasoned  it  out, 
though,"  Marian  went  on,  sagaciously  wrinkled  as  to  the 
brow.  "They  are  probably  the  heathen  fauns  and  satyrs 
and  such, — one  feels  somehow  that  they  are  all  men. 
Don't  you,  Jack?  Well,  when  the  elder  gods  were  sent 
packing  from  Olympus  there  was  naturally  no  employ 
ment  left  for  these  sylvan  folk.  So  April  took  them  into 
her  service.  Each  year  she  sends  them,  about  every 
forest  on  her  errands :  she  sends  them  to  make  the  daffo 
dil-cups,  for  instance,  which  I  suppose  is  difficult,  for  evi 
dently  they  make  them  out  of  sunshine;  or  to  pencil 
the  eyelids  of  the  narcissi — narcissi  are  brazen  creatures, 
Jack,  and  use  a  deal  of  kohl ;  or  to  marshal  the  fleecy 
young  clouds  about  the  sky;  or  to  whistle  the  birds  up 
from  the  south.  Oh,  she  keeps  them  busy,  does  April ! 
And  'tis  true  that  if  you  be  quite  still  you  can  hear  them 
tripping  among  the  dead  leaves;  and  they  watch  you — 
with  very  bright,  twinkling  little  eyes,  I  think, — but  you 
never  see  them.  And  always,  always  there  is  that  enor 
mous  whispering, — half -friendly,  half -menacing, — as  if 
the  woods  were  trying  to  tell  you  something.  Tis  not 
only  the  foliage  rustling.  .  .  .  No,  I  have  often  thought 
it  sounded  like  some  gigantic  foreigner — some  Titan 
probably, — trying  in  his  own  queer  and  outlandish  lan 
guage  to  tell  you  something  very  important,  something 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  147 

that  means  a  deal  to  you,  and  to  you  in  particular.  Has 
not  anybody  ever  understood  him?" 

He  smiled.  "And  I,  too,  have  dwelt  in  Arcadia,"  said 
his  Grace  of  Ormskirk.  "Yes,  I  once  heard  April's 
message,  Marian,  for  all  my  crow's-feet.  But  that  was  a 
long  while  ago,  and  perhaps  I  have  forgotten  it.  I  cannot 
tell,  my  dear.  It  is  only  from  April  in  her  own  person 
that  one  hears  this  immemorial  message.  And  as  for  me  ? 
Eh,  I  go  into  the  April  woods,  and  I  find  trees  there  of 
various  sizes  that  pay  no  attention  to  me,  and  shrill,  dingy 
little  birds  that  deafen  me,  and  it  may  be  a  gaudy  flower 
or  two,  and,  in  any  event,  I  find  a  vast  quantity  of  sodden, 
decaying  leaves  to  warn  me  the  place  is  no  fitting  haunt 
for  a  gentleman  afflicted  with  rheumatism.  So  I  come 
away,  my  dear." 

Marian  looked  him  over  for  a  moment.  "You  are  not 
really  old,"  she  said,  with  rather  conscious  politeness. 
"And  you  are  wonderfully  well-preserved.  Why,  Jack, 
do  you  mind — not  being  foolish?"  she  demanded,  on  a 
sudden. 

He  debated  the  matter.  Then,  "Yes,"  the  Duke  of 
Ormskirk  conceded,  "I  suppose  I  do,  at  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  regret  that  lost  folly.  A  part  of  me  died,  you 
understand,  when  it  vanished,  and  it  is  not  exhilarating  to 
think  of  one's  self  as  even  partially  dead.  Once — I 
hardly  know" — he  sought  the  phrase, — "once  this  was  a 
spacious  and  inexplicable  world,  with  a  mystery  up  every 
lane  and  an  adventure  around  each  street-corner ;  a  world 
inhabited  by  most  marvelous  men  and  women, — some 
amiable,  and  some  detestable,  but  every  one  of  them  very 
interesting.  And  now  I  miss  the  wonder  of  it  all.  You 
will  presently  discover,  my  dear,  that  youth  is  only  an  in- 


148  GALLANTRY 


genious  prologue  to  whet  one's  appetite  for  a  rather  dull 
play.  Eh,  I  am  no  pessimist, — one  may  still  find  satis 
faction  in  the  exercise  of  mind  and  body,  in  the  pleasures 
of  thought  and  taste  and  in  other  titillations  of  one's 
faculties.  Dinner  is  good  and  sleep,  too,  is  excellent. 
But  we  men  and  women  tend,  upon  too  close  inspection, 
to  appear  rather  paltry  flies  that  buzz  and  bustle  aimlessly 
about,  and  breed  perhaps,  and  eventually  die,  and  rot,  and 
are  swept  away  from  this  fragile  window-pane  of  time 
that  opens  on  eternity." 

"If  you  are,  indeed,  the  sort  of  person  you  describe," 
said  Marian,  reflectively,  "I  do  not  at  all  blame  April 
for  having  no  communication  with  anyone  possessed  of 
such  extremely  unpleasant  opinions.  But  for  my  own 
part,  I  shall  never  cease  to  wonder  what  it  is  that  the 
woods  whisper  about." 

Appraising  her,  he  hazarded  a  cryptic  question,  "Vase 
of  delights,  and  have  you  never — cared  ?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  think  so,"  she  answered,  readily  enough. 
"At  least,  I  used  to  be  very  fond  of  Humphrey  Degge, — 
that  is  the  Marquis  of  Venour's  place  yonder,  you  know, 
just  past  the  spur  of  the  forest, — but  he  was  only  a 
younger  son,  so  of  course  Father  wouldn't  hear  of  it. 
That  was  rather  fortunate,  as  Humphrey  by  and  by  went 
mad  about  Dorothy's  blue  eyes  and  fine  shape, — I  think 
her  money  had  a  deal  to  do  with  it,  too,  and  in  any  event, 
she  will  be  fat  as  a  pig  at  thirty, — and  so  we  quarrelled. 
And  I  minded  it — at  first.  And  now — well,  I  scarcely 
know."  Marian  hesitated.  "He  was  a  handsome  man, 
but  that  ridiculous  cavalry  moustache  of  his  was  so 
bristly—" 

"I  beg  your  pardon  ?"  said  the  Duke. 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  149 

" — that  it  disfigured  him  dreadfully,"  said  she,  with 
firmness.  She  had  colored. 

His  Grace  of  Ormskirk  was  moved  to  mirth.  "Child, 
child,  you  are  so  deliciously  young  it  appears  a  monstrous 
crime  to  marry  you  to  an  old  fellow  like  me !"  He  took 
her  firm,  soft  hand  in  his.  "Are  you  quite  sure  you  can 
endure  me,  Marian?" 

"Why,  but  of  course  I  want  to  marry  you,"  she  said, 
naively  surprised.  "How  else  could  I  be  Duchess  of 
Ormskirk?" 

Again  he  chuckled.  "You  are  a  worldly  little  wretch," 
he  stated ;  "but  if  you  want  my  title  for  a  new  toy,  it  is 
at  your  service.  And  now  be  off  with  you, — you  and 
your  foolish  woods,  indeed !" 

Marian  went  a  slight  distance  and  then  turned  about, 
troubled.  "I  am  really  very  fond  of  you,  Jack,"  she  said, 
conscientiously. 

"Be  off  with  you!"  the  Duke  scolded.  "You  should 
be  ashamed  of  yourself  to  practice  such  flatteries  and 
blandishments  on  a  defenceless  old  gentleman.  You  had 
best  hurry,  too,  for  if  you  don't  I  shall  probably  kiss  you," 
he  threatened.  "I,  also,"  he  added,  with  point. 

She  blew  him  a  kiss  from  her  finger-tips  and  went  away 
singing. 

Sang  Marian: 

"Blackbird  and  thrush,  in  every  bush, 
Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow, 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves, 
Sing  my  fair  love  good-morrow. 
To  give  my  love  good-morrow, 
Sing  birds,  in  every  furrow." 


150  GALLANTRY 


II 


Left  to  his  own  resources,  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  sat 
down  beside  the  table  and  fell  to  making  irrelevant  marks 
upon  a  bit  of  paper.  He  hummed  the  air  of  Marian's 
song.  There  was  a  vague  contention  in  his  face.  Once 
he  put  out  his  hand  toward  the  open  despatch-box,  but 
immediately  he  sighed  and  pushed  it  farther  from  him. 
Presently  he  propped  his  chin  upon  both  hands  and 
stayed  in  the  attitude  for  a  long  while,  staring  past  the 
balustrade  at  the  clear,  pale  sky  of  April. 

Thus  Marian's  father,  the  Earl  of  Brudenel,  found 
Ormskirk.  The  Earl  was  lean  and  gray,  though  only 
three  years  older  than  his  prospective  son-in-law,  and  had 
been  Ormskirk's  intimate  since  boyhood.  Ormskirk  had 
for  Lord  Brudenel's  society  the  liking  that  a  successful 
person  usually  preserves  for  posturing  in  the  gaze  of  his 
outrivalled  school-fellows:  Brudenel  was  an  embodied 
and  flattering  commentary  as  to  what  a  less  able  man 
might  make  of  chances  far  more  auspicious  than  Orms 
kirk  ever  enjoyed.  All  failure  the  Earl's  life  had  been ; 
in  London  they  had  long  ago  forgotten  handsome  Harry 
Heleigh  and  the  composure  with  which  he  nightly  shoved 
his  dwindling  patrimony  across  the  gaming-table;  about 
Halvergate  men  called  him  "the  muddled  Earl,"  and  said 
of  him  that  his  heart  died  with  his  young  wife  some 
eighteen  years  back.  Now  he  vegetated  in  the  home  of 
his  fathers,  contentedly,  a  veteran  of  life,  retaining  still  a 
mild  pride  in  his  past  vagaries;1  and  kindly  time  had 

1  It  was  then  well  said  of  him  by  Claridge,  "It  is  Lord  Henry 
Heleigh 's  vanity  to  show  that  he  is  a  man  of  pleasure  as  well  as 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  151 

armed  him  with  the  benumbing,  impenetrable  indifference 
of  the  confessed  failure.  He  was  abstractedly  courteous 
to  servants,  and  he  would  not,  you  felt,  have  given  even 
to  an  emperor  his  undivided  attention.  For  the  rest,  the 
former  wastrel  had  turned  miser,  and  went  noticeably 
shabby  as  a  rule,  but  this  morning  he  was  trimly  clothed, 
for  he  was  returning  homeward  from  the  quarter-sessions 
at  Winstead. 

"Dreamer!"  said  the  Earl.  "I  do  not  wonder  that 
you  grow  fat." 

The  Duke  smiled  up  at  him.  "Confound  you,  Harry !" 
said  he,  "I  had  just  overreached  myself  into  believing  I 
had  made  what  the  world  calls  a  mess  of  my  career  and 
was  supremely  happy.  There  are  disturbing  influences 
abroad  to-day."  He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  green- 
and- white  gardens.  "Old  friend,  you  permit  disreputable 
trespassers  about  Halvergate.  'See  you  not  Goldy-locks 
there,  in  her  yellow  gown  and  green  sleeves  ?  the  profane 
pipes,  the  tinkling  timbrels?'  Spring  is  at  her  wiles 
yonder, — Spring,  the  liar,  the  queen-cheat,  Spring  that 
tricks  all  men  into  happiness." 

"  Tore  Gad,"  the  Earl  capped  his  quotation,  "if  the 
heathen  man  could  stop  his  ears  with  wax  against  the 
singing  woman  of  the  sea,  then  do  you  the  like  with  your 
fingers  against  the  trollop  of  the  forest." 

"Faith,  time  seals  them  firmlier  than  wax.  You 
and  I  may  sit  snug  now  with  never  a  quicker  heart 
beat  for  all  her  lures.  Yet  I  seem  to  remember, — once 
a  long  while  ago  when  we  old  fellows  were  some- 

of  business;  and  thus,  in  settlement,  the  expedition  he  displays 
toward  a  fellow-gambler  is  equitably  balanced  by  his  tardiness 
toward  a  too-credulous  shoemaker." 


152  GALLANTRY 


what  sprier, — I,  too,  seem  to  remember  this  Spring- 
magic." 

"Indeed,"  observed  the  Earl,  seating  himself  pon 
derously,  "if  you  refer  to  a  certain  inclination  at  that 
period  of  the  year  toward  the  likeliest  wench  in  the 
neighborhood,  so  do  I.  'Tis  an  obvious  provision  of 
nature,  I  take  it,  to  secure  the  perpetuation  of  the  species. 
Spring  comes,  and  she  sets  us  all  a-mating — humanity, 
partridges,  poultry,  pigs,  every  blessed  one  of  us  she 
sets  a-mating.  Propagation,  Jack, — propagation  is  neces 
sary,  d'ye  see ;  because,"  the  Earl  conclusively  demanded, 
"what  on  earth  would  become  of  us  if  we  didn't  propa 
gate?" 

"The  argument  is  unanswerable,"  the  Duke  conceded. 
"Yet  I  miss  it, — this  Spring-magic  that  no  longer  sets  the 
blood  of  us  staid  fellows  a- fret." 

"And  I,"  said  Lord  Brudenel,  "do  not.  It  got  me  into 
the  deuce  o>f  a  scrape  more  than  once." 

"Yours  is  the  sensible  view,  no  doubt.  .  .  .  Yet  I  miss 
it.  Ah,  it  is  not  only  the  wenches  and  the  red  lips  of  old 
years, — it  is  not  only  that  at  this  season  lasses'  hearts  grow 
tender.  There  are  some  verses — "  The  Duke  quoted, 
with  a  half-guilty  air:  , 

"Now  I  loiter,  and  dream  to  the  branches'  swaying 
In  furtive  conference, — high  overhead, — 
Atingle  with  rumors  that  Winter  is  sped 
And  over  his  ruins  a  world  goes  Maying. 

"Somewhere — impressively, — people  are  saying 
Intelligent  things    (which  their  grandmothers  said). 
While  I  loiter,  and  dream  to  the  branches'  swaying 
In  furtive  conference,  high  overhead." 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  153 


"Verses !"    The  Earl  snorted.     "At  your  age !" 

"Here  the  hand  of  April,  unwashed  from  slaying 
Earth's  fallen  tyrant — for  Winter  is  dead, — 
Uncloses  anemones,  staining  them  red : 
And  her  daffodils  guard  me  in  squads, — displaying 
Intrepid  lances  lest  wis'dom  tread! 
Where  I  loiter  and  dream  to  the  branches'  swaying — 

"Well,  Harry,  and  to-day  I  cannot  do  so  any  longer. 
That  is  what  I  most  miss, — the  ability  to  lie  a-sprawl  in 
the  spring  grass  and'  dream  out  an  uncharted  world, — a 
dream  so  vivid  that,  beside  it,  reality  grew  tenuous,  and 
the  actual  world  became  one  of  childhood's  shrug-provok 
ing  bugbears  dimly  remembered." 

"I  do  not  understand  poetry,"  the  Earl  apologetically 
observed.  "It  appears  to  me  unreasonable  to  advance 
a  statement  simply  because  it  happens  to  rhyme  with  a 
statement  you  have  previously  made.  And  that  is  what 
all  you  poets  do.  Why,  this  is  very  remarkable,"  said 
Lord  Brudenel,  with  a  change  of  tone;  "yonder  is  young 
Humphrey  Degge  with*  Marian.  I  had  thought  him  in 
bed  at  Tunbridge.  Did  I  not  hear  something  of  an  affair 
with  a  house-breaker —  ?" 

Then  the  Earl  gave  an  exclamation,  for  in  full  view  of 
them  Lord  Humphrey.  Degge  was  kissing  Lord  Brudenel's 
daughter. 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  said  the  Earl.  "Oh,  the  insolent 
young  ape!" 

"Nay,"  said  the  Duke,  restraining  him;  "not  partic 
ularly  insolent,  Harry.  If  you  will  observe  more  closely 
you  will  see  that  Marian  does  not  exactly  object  to  his  ca- 


154  GALLANTRY 


resses — quite  the  contrary,  I  would  say.  I  told  you  that 
you  should  not  permit  Spring"  about  the  premises." 

The  Earl  wheeled*  in  an  extreme  of  astonishment. 
"Come,  come,  sir!  she  is  your  betrothed  wife!  Do  you 
not  intend  to  kill  the" fellow?" 

"My  faith,  why?"  said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  with  a 
shrug.  "As  for  betrothals-,  do  you  not  see  that  she  is  al 
ready  very  happily  paired?" 

In  answer  Brudenel  raised  his  hands  toward  heaven,  in 
just  the  contention  of  despair  and  rage  appropriate  to 
parental  affection  when  an  excellent  match  is  imperilled 
by  a  chit's  idiocy. 

Marian  and  Lord  Humphrey  Degge  were  mounting 
from  the  scrap  of  forest  that  juts  from  Pevis  Hill,  like 
a  spur  from  a  man's  heel,  between  Agard  Court  and 
Halvergate.  Their  progress  was  not  conspicuous  for 
celerity.  Now  they  had  attained  to  the  tiny,  elm- 
shadowed  plateau  beyond  the  yew-hedge,  and  there 
Marian  paused.  Two  daffodils  had  fallen  from  the  great 
green-and-yellow  cluster  in  her  left  hand.  Humphrey 
Degge  lifted  them,  and  then  raised  to  his  mouth  the 
slender  fingers  that  reached  toward  the  flowers.  The 
man's  pallor,  you  would  have  said,  was  not  altogether 
due  to  his  recent  wound. 

She  stood  looking  up  at  him,  smiling  a  little  timidly, 
her  teeth  glinting  through  parted  lips,  her  eyes  star-fire, 
her  cheeks  blazoning  gules  in  his  honor;  she  seemed  not 
to  breathe  at  all.  A  faint  twinge  woke  in  the  Duke  of 
Ormskirk's  heart.  Most  women  smiled  upon  him,  but 
they  smiled  beneath  furtive  eyes,  sometimes  beneath 
rapacious  eyes,  and  many  smiled  with  reddened  lips  which 
strove,  uneasily,  to  provoke  a  rental ;  how  long  was  it  he 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  155 

wondered,  simply,  since  any  woman  had  smiled  as  Marian 
smiled  now,  for  him  ? 

"I  think  it  is  a  dream,"  said  Marian. 

From  the  vantage  of  the  yew-hedge,  "I  would  to 
Heaven  I  could  think  so,  too,"  observed  her  father. 


Ill 


The  younger  people  had  passed  out  of  sight.  But  from 
the  rear  of  the  hedge  came  to  the  Duke  and  Lord 
Brudenel,  staring  blankly  at  each  other  across  the  paper- 
littered  table,  a  sort  of  duet.  First  tenor,  then  contralto, 
then  tenor  again, — and  so  on,  with  many  long  intervals  of 
silence,  during  which  you  heard  the  plashing  of  the  foun 
tain,  grown  doubly  audible,  and,  it  might  be,  the  sharp, 
plaintive  cry  of  a  bird  intensified  by  the  stillness. 

"I  think  it  is  a  dream,"  said  Marian.  .  .  . 

"What  eyes  you  have,  Marian !" 

"But  you  have  not  kissed  the  littlest  finger  of  all.  See, 
it  is  quite  stiff  with  indignation." 

"They  are  green,  and  brown,  and  yellow — O  Marian, 
there  are  little  gold  specks  in  them  like  those  in  eau  de 
Dantzig!  They  are  quite  wonderful  eyes,  Marian.  And 
your  hair  is  all  streaky  gold-and-brown.  You  should  not 
have  two  colors  in  your  hair,  Marian.  Marian,  did  any 
one  ever  tell  you  that  you  are  very  beautiful?" 

Silence.     "Pee-weet !"  said  a  bird.     "Tweet?" 

And  Marian  replied:  "I  am  devoted  to  Dorothy,  of 
course,  but  I  have  never  admired  her  fashion  of  making 
advances  to  every  man  she  meets.  Yes,  she  does." 

"Nay,  'twas  only  her  money  that  lured  me,  to  do  her 
justice.  It  appeared  so  very  sensible  to  marry  an  heir- 


156  GALLANTRY 


ess.  .  .  .  But  how  can  any  man  be  sensible  so  long  as 
he  is  haunted  by  the  memory  of  your  eyes?  For  see 
how  bright  they  are, — see,  here  in  the  water.  Two  stars 
have  fallen  into  the  fountain,  Marian." 

"You  are  handsomer  so.  Your  nose  is  too  short,  but 
here  in  the  fountain  you  are  quite  handsome — " 

"Marian,—" 

"I  wonder  how  many  other  women's  fingers  you  have 
kissed — like  that.  Ah,  don't  tell  me,  Humphrey !  Hum 
phrey,  promise  me  that  you  will  always  lie  to  me  when  I 
ask  you  about  those  other  women.  Lie  to  me,  my  dear, 
and  I  will  know  that  you  are  lying  and  love  you  all  the 
better  for  it.  ...  You  should  not  have  told  me  about 
Dorothy.  How  often  did  you  kiss  all  of  Dorothy's  finger 
tips  one  by  one,  in  just  that  foolish,  dear  way  ?" 

"But  who  was  this  Dorothy  you  speak  of,  Marian? 
I  have  forgotten.  Oh,  yes — we  quarrelled — over  some 
woman, — and  I  went  away.  I  left  you  for  a  mere  heiress, 
Marian.  You!  And  five  days  ago  while  I  lay  abed, 
wounded,  they  told  me  that  you  were  to  marry  Ormskirk. 
I  thought  I  would  go  mad.  .  .  .  Eh,  I  remember  now. 
But  what  do  these  things  matter  ?  Is  it  not  of  far  greater 
importance  that  the  sunlight  turns  your  hair  to  pure 
topaz  ?" 

"Ah,  my  hair,  my  eyes  !  Is  it  these  you  care  for  ?  You 
would  not  love  me,  then,  if  I  were  old  and  ugly?" 

"Eh,— I  love  you." 

"Animal!"  .  .  . 

There  was  a  longer  silence  now.  "Tweet !"  said  a  bird, 
pertly. 

Then  Marian  said,  "Let  us  go  to  my  father." 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  157 

"To  tell  him—  ?" 

"Why,  that  I  love  you,  I  suppose,  and  that  I  cannot 
marry  Jack,  not  even  to  be  a  duchess.  Oh,  I  did  so  much 
want  to  be  a  duchess !  But  when  you  came  back  to  me 
yonder  in  the  forest,  somehow  I  stopped  wanting  any 
thing  more.  Something — I  hardly  know — something 
seemed  to  say,  as  you  came  striding  through  the  dead 
leaves,  laughing  and  so  very  pale, — something  seemed 
to  say,  'You  love  him' — oh,  quite  audibly." 

"Audibly !  Why,  the  woods  whispered  it,  the  birds 
trilled  it,  screamed  it,  the  very  leaves  underfoot  crackled 
assent.  Only  they  said,  'You  love  her — the  girl  yonder 
with  glad,  frightened  eyes,  Spring's  daughter.'  Oh,  I  too, 
heard  it,  Marian !  'Follow,'  the  birds  sang,  'follow,  fol 
low,  follow,  for  yonder  is  the  heart's  desire !" 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  raised  his  head,  his  lips  sketch 
ing  a  whistle.  "Ah!  ah!"  he  muttered.  "Eureka!  I, 
have  recaptured  it — the  message  of  April." 

IV 

When  these  two  had  gone  the  Duke  flung  out  his  hands 
in  a  comprehensive  gesture  of  giving  up  the  entire  matter. 
"Well,"  said  he,  "you  see  how  it  is !" 

"I  do,"  Lord  Brudenel  assented.  "And  if  you  intend 
to  sit  patient  under  it,  I,  at  least,  wear  a  sword.  Con 
found  it,  Jack,  do  you  suppose  I  am  going  to  have  pro 
miscuous  young  men  dropping  out  of  the  skies  and  em 
bracing  my  daughter?"  The  Earl  became  forceful  in  his 
language. 

"Harry,—"  the  Duke  began. 


158  GALLANTRY 


"The  fellow  hasn't  a  penny — not  a  stick  or  a  stiver  to 
his  name !  He's  only  a  rascally,  impudent  younger  son — 
and  even  Venour  has  nothing  except  Agard  Court  yonder  ! 
That — that  crow's  nest!"  Lord  Brudenel  spluttered. 
"They  mooned  about  together  a  great  deal  a  year  ago,  but 
I  thought  nothing  of  it ;  then  he  went  away,  and  she  never 
spoke  of  him  again.  Never  spoke  of  him — oh,  the  jade!" 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  considered  the  affair,  a  mild 
amusement  waking  in  his  plump  face. 

"Old  friend,"  said  he,  at  length,  "it  is  my  opinion  that 
we  are  perilously  near  to  being  a  couple  of  fools.  We 
planned  this  marriage,  you  and  I— ^dear,  dear,  we  planned 
it  when  Marian  was  scarcely  out  of  her  cradle !  But  we 
failed  to  take  nature  into  the  plot,  Harry.  It  was 
sensible — Oh,  granted!  I  obtained  a  suitable  mistress 
for  Ingilby  and  Bottreaux  Towers,  a  magnificent  orna 
ment  for  my  coach  and  my  opera-box ;  while  you — your 
pardon,  old  friend,  if  I  word  it  somewhat  grossly, — you, 
in  effect,  obtained  a  wealthy  and  not  uninfluential  hus 
band  for  your  daughter.  Nay,  I  think  you  are  fond  of 
me,  but  that  is  beside  the  mark;  it  was  not  Jack  Bulmer 
who  was  to  marry  your  daughter,  but  the  Duke  of  Orms 
kirk.  The  thing  was  as  logical  as  a  sale  of  bullocks, — 
value  for  value.  But  now  nature  intervenes,  and" — he 
snapped  his  fingers, — "eh,  well,  since  she  wants  this 
Humphrey  Degge,  of  course  she  must  have  him," 

Lord  Brudenel  mentioned  several  penalties  which  he 
would  voluntarily  incur  in  case  of  any  such  preposter 
ous  marriage. 

"Your  style,"  the  Duke  regretfully  observed,  "is  some 
what  more  original  than  your  subject.  You  have  a  hand 
some  daughter  to  barter,  and  you  want  your  price.  The 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  159 

thing  is  far  from  uncommon.  Yet  you  shall  have  your 
price,  Harry.  What  estate  do  you  demand  of  your 
son-in-law  ?" 

"What  the  devil  are  you  driving  at?"  said  Lord 
Brudenel. 

Composedly  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  spread  out  his 
hands.  "You  have,  in  effect,  placed  Marian  in  the  mar 
ket,"  he  said,  "and  I  offer  to  give  Lord  Humphrey  Degge 
the  money  with  which  to  purchase  her." 

"  Tis  evident,"  the  Earl  considered,  "that  you  are 
demented !" 

"Because  I  willingly  part  with  money?  But  then  I 
have  a  great  deal  of  money.  I  have  money,  and  I  have 
power,  and  the  King  occasionally  pats  me  upon  the  shoul 
der,  and  men  call  me  'your  Grace/  instead  of  'my  Lord/ 
as  they  do  you.  So  I  ought  to  be  very  happy,  ought  I 
not,  Harry?  Ah,  yes,  I  ought  to  be  entirely  happy,  be 
cause  I  have  had  everything,  with  the  unimportant  ex 
ception  of  the  one  thing  I  wanted." 

But  Lord  Brudenel  had  drawn  himself  erect,  stiffly. 
"I  am  to  understand,  then,  from  this  farrago,  that  on 
account  of  the — um — a — incident  we  have  just  witnessed 
you  decline  to  marry  my  daughter?" 

"I  would  sooner  cut  off  my  right  hand,"  said  the  Duke, 
"for  I  am  fonder  of  Marian  than  I  am  of  any  other  living 
creature." 

"Oh,  very  well!"  the  Earl  conceded,  sulkily.  "Um- 
fraville  wants  her.  He  is  only  a  marquis,  of  course,  but 
so  far  as  money  is  concerned,  I  believe  he  is  a  thought 
better  off  than  you.  I  would  have  preferred  you  as  a 
son-in-law,  you  understand,  but  since  you  withdraw — 
why,  then,  let  it  be  Umfraville." 


160  GALLANTRY 


Now  the  Duke  looked  up  into  his  face  for  some  while. 
"You  would  do  that !  You  would  sell  Marian  to  Umf ra- 
ville1 — to  a  person  who  unites  the  continence  of  a 
partridge  with  the  graces  of  a  Berkshire  hog — to  that 
lean  whoremonger,  to  that  disease-rotted  goat!  Because 
he  has  the  money!  Why,  Harry,  what  a  cur  you  are!" 

Lord  Brudenel  bowed.  "My  Lord  Duke,  you  are  to 
day  my  guest.  I  apprehend  you  will  presently  be  leaving 
Halvergate,  however,  and  as  soon  as  that  regrettable  event 
takes  place,  I  shall  see  to  it  a  friend  wait  upon  you  with 
the  length  of  my  sword.  Meanwhile  I  venture  to  re 
serve  the  privilege  of  managing  my  family  affairs  at  my 
own  discretion." 

"I  do  not  fight  with  hucksters,"  the  Duke  flung  at  him, 
"and  you  are  one.  Oh,  you  peddler !  Can  you  not  un 
derstand  that  I  am  trying  to  buy  your  daughter's  happi 
ness?" 

"I  intend  that  my  daughter  shall  make  a  suitable 
match,"  replied  the  Earl,  stubbornly,  "and  she  shall.  If 
Marian  is  a  sensible  girl — and,  barring  to-day,  I  have  al 
ways  esteemed  her  such, — she  will  find  happiness  in 
obeying  her  father's  mandates :  otherwise — "  He  waved 
the  improbable  contingency  aside. 

"Sensible!  Faith,  can  you  not  see,  even  now,  that  to 
be  sensible  is  not  the  highest  wisdom?  You  and  I  are 
sensible  as  the  world  go^es, — and  in  God's  name,  what 
good  does  it  do  us?  Here  we  sit,  two  miserable  and 
empty-veined  old  men  squabbling  across  a  deal-table, 
breaking  up  a  friendship  of  thirty  years.  And  yonder 
Marian  and  this  Humphrey  Degge — who  are  within  a 

1  "Whose  entrance  blushing  Satan  did  deny 
Lest  hell  be  thought  no  better  than  a  sty." 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  161 

measurable  distance  of  insanity,  if  their  conversation  be 
the  touchstone, — yet  tread  the  pinnacles  of  some  seventh 
heaven  of  happiness.  April  has  brought  them  love, 
Harry.  Oh,  I  concede  their  love  is  folly!  But  it  is  all 
folly,  Harry  Heleigh.  Purses,  titles,  blue  ribbons,  and 
the  envy  of  our  fellows  are  the  toys  which  we  struggle 
for,  we  sensible  men;  and  in  the  end  we  find  them  only 
toys,  and,  gaining  them,  we  gain  only  weariness.  And 
love,  too*,  is  a  toy ;  but,  gaining  love,  we  gain,  at  least,  a 
temporary  happiness.  There  is  the  difference,  Harry 
Heleigh." 

"Oh,  have  done  with  your  balderdash !"  said  Lord 
Brudenel.  He  spoke  irritably,  for  he  knew  his  position 
to  be  guaranteed  by  common-sense,  and  his  slow  wrath 
was  kindling  at  opposition. 

His  Grace  of  Ormskirk  rose  to  his  feet,  all  tension.  In 
the  act  his  hand  struck  against  the  open  despatch-box; 
afterward,  with  a  swift  alteration  of  countenance,  he 
overturned  this  box  and  scattered  the  contents  about  the 
table.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to  forget  Lord  Bru 
denel;  quite  without  warning  Ormskirk  flared  into  rage. 

"Harry  Heleigh,  Harry  Heleigh  !"  he  cried,  as  he  strode 
across  the  terrace,  and  caught  Lord  Brudenel  roughly  by 
the  shoulder,  "are  you  not  content  to  go  to  your  grave 
without  killing  another  woman?  Oh,  you  dotard  miser! 
— you  haberdasher! — haven't  I  offered  you  money,  and 
isn't  money  the  only  thing  you  are  now  capable  of  caring 
for?  Give  the  girl  to  Degge,  you  huckster!" 

Lord  Brudenel  broke  from  the  Duke's  grasp.  Bru 
denel  was  asplutter  with  anger.  "I  will  see  you  damned 
first.  You  offer  money, — I  fling  the  money  in  your  fat 
face.  Look  you,  you  have  just  insulted  me,  and  now 


162  GALLANTRY 


you  offer — money!  Another  insult.  John  Bulmer,  I 
would  not  accept  an  affront  like  this  from  an  archangel. 
You  are  my  guest,  but  I  am  only  flesh  and  blood.  I 
swear  to  you  this  is  the  most  deliberate  act  of  my  life." 
Lord  Brudenel  struck  him  full  upon  the  cheek. 

"Pardon,"  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk.  He  stood 
rigid,  his-  arms  held  stiff  at  his  sides,  his  hands  clenched ; 
the  red  mark  showed  plain  against  an  ashy  countenance. 
"Pardon  me  for  a  moment."  Once  or  twice  he  opened 
and  shut  his  eyes  like  an  automaton.  "And  stop  behav 
ing  so  ridiculously.  I  cannot  fight  you.  I  have  other 
matters  to  attend  to.  We  are  wise,  Harry, — you  and  I. 
We  know  that  love  sometimes  does  not  endure;  some 
times  it  flares  up  at  a  girl's  glance,  quite  suddenly,  and 
afterward  smoulders  out  into  indifference  or  even  into 
hatred.  So,  say  we,  let  all  sensible  people  marry  for 
money,  for  then  in  any  event  you  get  what  you  marry  for, 
— a  material  benefit,  a  tangible  good,  which  does  not 
vanish  when  the  first  squabble,  or  perhaps  the  first  gray 
hair,  arrives.  That  is  sensible;  but  women,  Harry,  are 
not  always  sensible — " 

"Draw,  you  coward!"  Lord  Brudenel  snarled  at  him. 
The  Earl  had  already  lugged  out  his  ineffectual  dress 
sword,  and  would  have  been,  as  he  stood  on  guard,  a 
ludicrous  figure  had  he  not  been  rather  terrible.  His 
rage  shook  him  visibly,  and  his  obstinate  mouth  twitched 
and  snapped  like  that  of  a  beast  cornered.  All  gray  he 
was,  and  the  sun  glistened  on  his  gray  tye-wig  as  he 
waited.  His  eyes  were  coals. 

But  Ormskirk  had  regained  composure.  "You  know- 
that  I  am  not  a  coward,"  the  Duke  said,  equably.  "I 
have  proven  it  many  times.  Besides,  you  overlook  two 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  163 

details.  One  is  that  I  have  no  sword  with  me,  I  am 
quite  unarmed.  The  other  detail  is  that  only  gentlemen 
fight  duels,  and  just  now  we  are  hucksters,  you  and  I, 
chaffering  over  Marian's  happiness.  So  I  return  to  my 
bargaining.  You  will  not  sell*  Marian's  happiness  to 
me  for  money?  Why,  then — remember,  we  are  only 
hucksters,  you  and  I, — I  will  purchase  it  by  a  dishonor 
able  action.  I  will  show  you  a  woman's  letters, — some 
letters  I  was  going  to  burn  romantically  before  I  mar 
ried —  Instead,  I  wish  you  to  read'  them." 

He  pushed  the  papers  lying  upon  the  table  toward 
Lord  Brudenel.  Afterward  Ormskirk  turned  away  and 
stood  looking  over  the  ivy-covered  balustrade  into  the 
gardens  below.  All  white  and  green  and  blue  the  vista 
was,  and  of  a  monastic  tranquillity,  save  for  the  plashing 
of  the  fountain  behind' the  yew-hedge.  From  the  gardens 
at  his  feet  irresolute  gusts  brought  tepid  woodland  odors. 
He  heard  the  rustling  of  papers,  heard  Lord  Brudenel's 
sword  fall  jangling  to  the  ground.  The  Duke  turned. 

"And  for  twenty  years  I  have  been  eating  my  heart  out 
with  longing  for  her,"  the  Earl  said.  "And — and  I 
thought  you  were  my  friend,  Jack." 

"She  was  not  your  wife  when  I  first  knew  her.  But 
John  Buhner  was  a  penniless  nobody, — so  they  gave  her 
to  you,  an  earl's  heir,  those  sensible  parents  of  hers.  I 
never  saw  her  again,  though — as  you  see, — she  wrote  to 
me  sometimes.  And  her  parents  did  the  sensible  thing; 
but  I  think  they  killed  her,  Harry." 

"Killed  her?"  Lord- Brudenel  echoed,  stupidly.  Then 
on  a  sudden  it  was  singular  to  see  the  glare  in  his  eyes 
puffed  out  like  a  candle.  "I  killed  her,"  he  whispered; 
"why,  I  killed  Alison,— I!"  He  began  to  laugh.  "Now 


164  GALLANTRY 


that  is  amusing,  because  she  was  the  one  thing  in  the 
world  I  ever  loved.  I  remember  that  she  used  to  shudder 
when  I  kissed  her.  I  thought  it  was  because  she  was 
only  a  brown  and  thin  and  timid  child,  who  would  be 
wiser  in  love's  tricks  by  and  by.  Now  I  comprehend 
'twas  because  every  kiss  was  torment  to  her,  because 
every  time  I  touched  her  'twas  torment.  So  she  died  very 
slowly,  did  Alison, — and  always  I  was  at  hand  with  my 
kisses,  my  pet  names,  and  my  paddlings, — killing  her,  you 
observe,  always  urging  her  graveward.  Yes,  and  yet 
there  is  nothing  in  these  letters  to  show  how  much  she 
must  have  loathed  me !"  he  said,  in  a  mild  sort  of  wonder. 
He  appeared  senile  now,  the  shrunken  and  calamitous 
shell  of  the  man  he  had  been  within  the  moment. 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  put  an  arm  about  him.  "Old 
friend,  old  friend !"  said  he. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me?"  the  Earl  said.  "I  loved 
you,  Jack.  I  worshipped  her.  I  would  never  willingly 
have  seen  you  two  unhappy." 

"Her  parents  would  have  done  as  you  planned  to  do, — 
they  would  have  given  their  daughter  to  the  next  richest 
suitor.  I  was  nobody  then.  So  the  wisdom  of  the  aged 
slew  us,  Harry, — slew  Alison  utterly,  and  left  me  with  a 
living  body,  indeed,  but  with  little  more.  I  do  not  say 
that  body  has  not  amused  itself.  Yet  I  too,  loved  her, 
Harry  Heleigh.  And  when  I  saw  this  new  Alison — for 
Marian  is  her  mother,  face,  heart,  and  soul, — why,  some 
wraith  of  emotion  stirred  in  me,  some  thrill,  some  not 
quite  forgotten  pulse.  It  seemed  Alison  come  back  from 
the  grave.  Love  did  not  reawaken,  for  youth's  fervor 
was  gone  out  of  me,  yet  presently  I  fell  a-dreaming  over 
my  Madeira  on  long  winter  evenings, — sedate  and  tran- 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  165 

quil  dreams  of  this  new  Alison  flitting  about  Ingilby, 
making  the  splendid,  desolate  place  into  a  home.  An  old 
man's  fancies,  Harry, — fancies  bred  of  my  loneliness,  for 
I  am  lonely  nowadays.  But  my  dreams,  I  find,  were  not 
sufficiently  comprehensive;  for  they  did  not  anticipate 
April, — and  nature, — and  Lord  Humphrey  Degge.  We 
must  yield  to  that  triumvirate,  we  sensible  old  men. 
Nay,  we  are  wise  as  the  world  goes,  but  we  have  learned, 
you  and  I,  that  to  be  sensible  is  not  the  highest  wisdom. 
Marian  is  her  mother  in  soul,  heart,  and  feature.  Don't 
let  the  old  tragedy  be  repeated,  Harry.  Let  her  have  this 
Degge !  Let  Marian  have  her  chance  of  being  happy,  for 
a  year  or  two.  .  .  ." 

But  Lord  Brudenel  had  paid  very  little  attention.  "I 
suppose  so,"  he  said,  when  the  Duke  had  ended.  "Oh, 
I  suppose  so.  Jack,  she  was  always  kind  and  patient  and 
gentle,  you  understand,  but  she  used  to  shudder  when  I 
kissed  her,"  -he  repeated,  dully— "shudder,  Jack."  He 
sat  staring  at  his  sword  lying  there  on  the  ground,  as 
though  it  fascinated  him. 

"Ah,  but,  old  friend,"  the  Duke  cried,  with  his  hand 
upon  Lord  Brudeners  shoulder,  "forgive  me!  It  was  the 
only  way." 

Lord  Brudenel  rose  to  his  feet.  "Oh,  yes !  why,  yes,  I 
forgive  you,  if  that  is  any  particular  comfort  to  you.  It 
scarcely  seems  of  any  importance,  though.  The  one 
thing  which  really  matters  is  that  I  loved  her,  and  I  killed 
her.  Oh,  beyond  doubt,  I  forgive  you.  But  now  that 
you  have  made  my  whole  past  a  hideous  stench  to  me, 
and  have  proven  the  love  I  was  so  proud  of — the  one 
quite  clean,  quite  unselfish  thing  in  my  life,  I  thought  it, 
Jack, — to  have  been  only  my  lust  vented  on  a  defenceless 


166  GALLANTRY 


woman, — why,  just  now,  I  have  not  time  to  think  of  for 
giveness.  Yes,  Marian  may  marry  Degge  if  she  cares  to. 
And  I  am  sorry  I  took  her  mother  away  from  you.  I 
would  not  have  done  it  if  I  had  known." 

Brudenel  started  away  drearily,  but  when  he  had  gone 
a  little  distance  turned  back. 

"And  the  point  of  it  is,"  he  said,  with  a  smile,  "that  I 
shall  go  on  living  just  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
shall  probably  live  for  a  long,  long  time.  My  body  is  so 
confoundedly  healthy.  How  the  deuce  did  you  have  the 
courage  to  go  on  living?"  he  demanded,  enviously.  "You 
loved  her  and  you  lost  her.  I'd  have  thought  you  would 
have  killed  yourself  long  ago." 

The  Duke  shrugged.  "Yes,  people  do  that  in  books. 
In  books  they  have  such  strong  emotions — " 

Then  Ormskirk  paused  for  a  heart-beat,  looking  down 
into  the  gardens.  Wonderfully  virginal  it  all  seemed  to 
Ormskirk,  that  small  portion  of  a  world  upon  the  brink 
of  renaissance:  a  tessellation  of  clean  colors,  where  the 
gravelled  walkways  were  snow  beneath  the  sun,  and  were 
in  shadow  transmuted  to  dim  violet  tints ;  and  for  the  rest, 
green  ranging  from  the  sober  foliage  of  yew  and  box 
and  ilex  to  the  pale  glow  of  young  grass  in  the  full  sun 
light;  all  green,  save»  where  the  lake  shone,  a  sapphire 
green-girdled.  Spring  triumphed  with  a  vaunting 
pageant.  And  in  the  forest,  in  the  air,  even  in  the  un- 
plumbed  sea-depths,  woke  the  mating  impulse, — irre 
sistible,  borne  as  it  might  seem  on  the  slow-rising  tide  of 
grass  that  now  rippled  about  the  world.  Everywhere  they 
were  mating ;  everywhere  glances  allured  and  mouth  met 
mouth,  while  John  Buhner  went  alone  without  any  mate 
or  intimacy  with  anyone. 


APRIL'S  MESSAGE  167 

Everywhere  people  were  having  emotions  which 
Ormskirk  envied.  He  had  so  few  emotions  nowadays. 
Even  all  this  posturing  and  talk  about  Alison  Heleigh  in 
which  he  had  just  indulged  began  to  savor  somehow  of 
play-acting.  He  had  loved  Alison,  of  course,  and  that 
which  he  had  said  was  true  enough — in  a  way, — but,  after 
all,  he  had  over-colored  it.  There  had  been  in  his  life  so 
many  interesting  matters,  and  so  many  other  women  too, 
that  the  loss  of  Alison  could  not  be  said  to  have  blighted 
his  existence  quite  satisfactorily.  No,  John  Bulmer  had 
again  been  playing  at  the  big  emotions  which  he  heard 
about  and  coveted,  just  as  at  this  very  moment  John 
Bulmer  was  playing  at  being  sophisticated  and  blase  .  .  . 
with  only  poor  old  Harry  for  audience.  .  .  . 

"A  great  deal  of  me  did  die,"  the  Duke  heard  this  John 
Bulmer  saying, — "all,  I  suppose,  except  my  carcass, 
Harry.  And  it  seemed  hardly  worth  the  trouble  to 
butcher  that  also." 

"No,"  Lord  Brudenel  conceded,  "I  suppose  not.  I 
wonder,  d'ye  know,  will  anything  ever  again  seem  really 
worth  the  trouble  of  doing  it?" 

The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  took  his  arm.  "Fy,  Harry,  bid 
the  daws  seek  their  food  elsewhere,  for  a  gentleman 
may  not  wear  his  heart  upon  his  sleeve.  Empires  crum 
ble,  and  hearts  break,  and  we  are  blessed  or  damned,  as 
Fate  elects ;  but  through  it  all  we  find  comfort  in  the  re 
flection  that  dinner  is  good,  and  sleep,  too,  is  excellent. 
As  for  the  future — eh,  well,  if  it  mean  little  to  us,  it 
means  a  deal  to  Alison's  daughter.  Let  us  go  to  them, 
Harry." 


VII 
IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL 

As  Played  at  Bellegarde,  in  the  April  of  1750 

"This  passion  is  in  honest  minds  the  strongest  incentive 
that  can  move  the  soul  of  man  to  laudable  accomplish 
ments.  Is  a  man  just?  Let  him  fall  in  love  and  grow 
generous.  It  immediately  makes  the  good  which  is  in 
him  shine  forth  in  new  excellencies,  and  the  ill  vanish 
away  without  the  pain  of  contrition,  but  with  a  sudden 
amendment  of  heart." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

Due  DE  PUYSANGE,  a  true  Frenchman,  a  pert,  railing 
fribble,  but  at  bottom  a  man  of  parts. 

MARQUIS  DE  SOYECOURT,  a  brisk,  conceited  rake,  and  dis 
tant  cousin  to  de  Puysange. 

CAZAIO,  captain  of  brigands. 

DOM  MICHEL  FREGOSE,  a  lewd,  rascally  friar. 

GUITON,  steward  to  de  Puysange. 

PAWSEY,  Ormskirk's  man. 

ACHON,  a  knave. 

MICHAULT,  another  knave. 

DUG  HESSE  DE  PUYSANGE. 

CLAIRE,  sister  to  de  Puysange,  a  woman  of  beauty  and 
resolution,  of  a  literal  humor. 

ATTENDANTS,  BRIGANDS,  and  DRAGOONS;  and,  in  the 
Proem,  LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE  and  LADY  MARIAN 
HELEIGH. 

SCENE 

First  at  Dover,  thence  shifting  to  Bellegarde-en-Poictesme 
and  the  adjacent  country. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL 

PROEM:— More  Properly  an  Apologue,  and  Treats  of  the 
Fallibility  of  Soap 

4* 

THE  Duke  of  Ormskirk  left  Halvergate  on  the  fol 
lowing  day,  after  participation  in  two  dialogues, 
which  I  abridge. 

Said  the  Duke  to  Lord  Humphrey  Degge: 
"You  have  been  favored,  sir,  vastly  beyond  your  de 
serts.  I  acquiesce,  since  Fate  is  proverbially  a  lady,  and 
to  dissent  were  in  consequence  ungallant.  Shortly  I  shall 
find  you  more  employment,  at  Dover,  whither  I  am  now 
going  to  gull  my  old  opponent  and  dear  friend,  Gaston  de 
Puysange,  in  the  matter  of  this  new  compact  between 
France  and  England.  I  shall  look  for  you  at  Dover,  then, 
in  three  days'  time." 

"And  in  vain,  my  Lord  Duke,"  said  the  other. 
Now   Ormskirk  raised  one  eyebrow,  after  a  fashion 
that  he  had. 

"Because  I  love  Marian,"  said  Lord  Humphrey,  "and 
because  I  mean  to  be  less  unworthy  of  Marian  than  I 
have  been  heretofore.  So  that  I  can  no  longer  be  your 
spy.  Besides,  in  nature  I  lack  aptitude  for  the  trade. 
Eh,  my  Lord  Duke,  have  you  already  forgotten  how  I 
bungled  the  affair  of  Captain  Audaine  and  his  asso 
ciates?" 

"But  that  was  a  maiden  effort.  And  as  I  find — at 
alas!  the  cost  of  decrepitude, — the  one  thing  life  teaches 
us  is  that  many  truisms  are  true.  'Practice  makes  per- 

171 


172  GALLANTRY 


feet'  is  one  of  them.  And  faith,  when  you  come  to  my 
age,  Lord  Humphrey,  you  will  not  grumble  at  having  to 
soil  your  hands  occasionally  in  the  cause  of  common- 
sense." 

The  younger  man  shook  his  head.  "A  week  ago  you 
would  have  found  me  amenable  enough  to  reason,  since 
I  was  then  a  sensible  person,  and  to  be  of  service  to 
his  Grace  of  Ormskirk  was  very  sensible, — just  as  to 
marry  Miss  Allonby,  the  young  and  beautiful  heiress, 
was  then  the  course  pre-eminently  sensible.  All  the 
while  I  loved  Marian,  you  understand.  But  I  clung  to 
common-sense.  Desperately  I  clung  to  common-sense. 
And  yet — "  He  flung  out  his  hands. 

"Yes,  there  is  by  ordinary  some  plaguy  yet"  the  Duke 
interpolated. 

"There  is,"  cried  Lord  Humphrey  Degge,  "the  swift 
and  heart-grappling  recollection  of  the  woman  you  gave 
up  in  the  cause  of  common-sense, — roused  by  some 
melody  she  liked,  or  some  shade  of  color  she  was  wont 
to  wear,  or  by  hearing  from  other  lips  some  turn  of 
speech  to  which  she  was  addicted.  My  Lord  Duke,  that 
memory  wakes  on  a  sudden  and  clutches  you  by  the 
throat,  and  it  chokes  you.  And  one  swears  that  common- 
sense — " 

"One  swears  that  common-sense  may  go  to  the  devil," 
said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  "whence  I  don't  say  it 
didn't  emanate!  And  one  swears  that,  after  all,  there 
is  excellent  stuff  in  you!  Your  idiotic  conduct,  sir, 
makes  me  far  happier  than  you  know !" 

After  some  ten  paces  he  turned,  with  a  smile.  "In  the 
matter  of  soiling  one's  hands —  Personally  I  prefer  them 
clean,  sir,  and  particularly  in  the  case  of  Marian's  hus- 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  173 

band.  Had  it  been  I,  he  must  have  stuck  to  prosaic 
soap;  with  you  in  the  role  there  is  a  difference.  Faith, 
Lord  Humphrey,  there  is  a  decided  difference,  and  if  you 
be  other  than  a  monster  of  depravity  you  will  henceforth, 
I  think,  preserve  your  hands  immaculate." 

To  Marian  the  Duke  said  a  vast  number  of  things, 
prompted  by  a  complaisant  thrill  over  the  fact  that,  in 
view  of  the  circumstances,  his  magnanimity  must  to  the 
unprejudiced  appear  profuse  and  his  behavior  tolerably 
heroic. 

"These  are  very  absurd  phrases,"  Marian  considered, 
"since  you  will  never  love  anyone,  I  think — however 
much  you  may  admire  the  color  of  her  eyes, — one-quarter 
so  earnestly  as  you  will  always  marvel  at  John  Bulmer. 
Or  perhaps  you  have  only  to  wait  a  little,  Jack,  till  in 
her  time  and  season  the  elect  woman  shall  come  to  you, 
just  as  she  comes  to  all  men, — and  then,  for  once  in  your 
existence,  you  will  be  sincere." 

"I  go,  provisionally,  to  seek  this  paragon  at  Dover," 
said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  and  he  lifted  her  fingers 
toward  his  smiling  lips;  "but  I  shall  bear  in  mind,  my 
dear,  even  in  Dover,  that  sincerity  is  a  devilishly  ex 
pensive  virtue." 


It  was  on  the  thirteenth  day  of  April  that  they  signed 
the  Second  Treaty  of  Dover,  which  not  only  confirmed 
its  predecessor  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  but  in  addition,  with 
the  brevity  of  lightning,  demolished  the  last  Stuarts'  hope 
of  any  further  aid  from  France.  And  the  French  am 
bassador  subscribed  the  terms  with  a  chuckle. 


174  GALLANTRY 


"For  on  this  occasion,  Jean,"  he  observed,  as  he  pushed 
the  paper  from  him,  "I  think  that  honors  are  fairly  even. 
You  obtain  peace  at  home,  and  in  India  we  obtain  as 
sistance  for  Dupleix ;  good,  the  benefit  is  quite  mutual ; 
and  accordingly,  my  friend,  I  must  still  owe  you  one  re 
quiting  for  that  Bavarian  business." 

Ormskirk  was  silent  until  he  had  the  churchwarden 
which  he  had  just  ignited  aglow.  "That  was  the  evening 
I  had  you  robbed  and  beaten  by  footpads,  was  it  not? 
Faith,  Gaston,  I  think  you  should  rather  be  obliged  to 
me,  since  it  taught  you  never  to  carry  important  papers 
in  your  pocket  when  you  go  about  your  affairs  of  gal 
lantry." 

"That  beating  with  great  sticks,"  the  Due  de  Puysange 
considered,  "was  the  height  of  unnecessity." 

And  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  shrugged.  "A  mere  touch 
of  verisimilitude,  Gaston;  footpads  invariably  beat  their 
victims.  Besides,  you  had  attempted  to  murder  me  at 
Aix,  you  may  remember." 

De  Puysange  was  horrified.  "My  dear  friend,  when  I 
set  Villaneuve  upon  you  it  was  with  express  orders  only 
to  run  you  through  the  shoulder.  Figure  to  yourself : 
that  abominable  St.  Severin  had  bribed  your  chef  to 
feed  you  powdered  glass  in  a  ragout !  But  I  dissented. 
'Jean  and  I  have  been  the  dearest  enemies  these  ten 
years  past/  I  said.  'At  every  Court  in  Europe  we  have 
lied  to  each  other.  If  you  kill  him  I  shall  beyond  doubt 
presently  perish  of  ennui/  So,  that  France  might  es 
cape  a  blow  so  crushing  as  the  loss  of  my  services,  St. 
Severin  consented  to  disable  you." 

"Believe  me,  I  appreciate  your  intervention,"  Ormskirk 
stated,  with  his  usual  sleepy  smile;  before  this  he  had 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  175 

found  amusement  in  the  naivete  of  his  friend's  self -ap 
probation. 

"Not  so!  Rather  you  are  a  monument  of  ingratitude," 
the  other  complained.  "You  conceive,  Villaneuve  was 
in  price  exorbitant.  I  snap  my  fingers.  'For  a  comrade 
so  dear/  I  remark,  'I  gladly  employ  the  most  expensive 
of  assassins/  Yet  before  the  face  of  such  magnanimity 
you  grumble."  The  Due  de  Puysange  spread  out  his 
shapely  hands.  "I  murder  you!  My  adored  Jean,  I 
had  as  lief  make  love  to  my  wife." 

Ormskirk  struck  his  finger-tips  upon  the  table.  "Faith, 
I  knew  there  was  something  I  intended  to  ask  of  you. 
I  want  you  to  get  me  a  wife." 

"In  fact,"  de  Puysange  observed,  "warfare  being  now 
at  an  end,  it  is  only  natural  that  you  should  resort 
to  matrimony.  I  can  assure  you  it  is  an  admirable  sub 
stitute.  But  who  is  the  lucky  Miss,  my  little  villain?" 

"Why,  that  is  for  you  to  settle,"  Ormskirk  said.  "I 
had  hoped  you  might  know  of  some  suitable  person." 

"Ma  foi,  my  friend,  if  I  were  arbiter  and  any  wife 
would  suit  you,  I  would  cordially  desire  you  to  take 
mine,  for  when  a  woman  so  incessantly  resembles  an 
angel  in  conduct,  her  husband  inevitably  desires  to  see 
her  one  in  reality." 

"You  misinterpret  me,  Gaston.  This  is  not  a  jest.  I 
had  always  intended  to  marry  as  soon  as  I  could  spare 
the  time,  and  now  that  this  treaty  is  disposed  of,  my 
opportunity  has  beyond  doubt  arrived.  I  am  practically 
at  leisure  until  the  autumn.  At  latest,  though,  I  must 
marry  by  August,  in  order  to  get  the  honeymoon  off  my 
hands  before  the  convocation  of  Parliament.  For  there 
will  have  to  be  a  honeymoon,  I  suppose." 


176  GALLANTRY 


"It  is  customary,"  de  Puysange  said.  He  appeared  to 
deliberate  something  entirely  alien  to  this  reply,  however, 
and  now  sat  silent  for  a  matter  of  four  seconds,  his  coun 
tenance  profoundly  grave.  He  was  a  hideous  man,1  with 
black  beetling  eyebrows,  an  enormous  nose,  and  an 
under-lip  excessively  full ;  his  face  had  all  the  calculated 
ill-proportion  of  a  gargoyle,  an  ugliness  so  consummate 
and  merry  that  in  ultimate  effect  it  captivated. 
.  At  last  de  Puysange  began :  "I  think  I  follow  you.  It 
is  quite  proper  that  you  should  marry.  It  is  quite  proper 
that  a  man  who  has  done  so  much  for  England  should 
leave  descendants  to  perpetuate  his  name,  and  with  per 
haps  some  portion  of  his  ability — no,  Jean,  I  do  not 
flatter, — serve  the  England  which  is  to  his  heart  so  dear. 
As  a  Frenchman  I  cannot  but  deplore  that  our  next  gen 
eration  may  have  to  face  another  Ormskirk;  as  your 
friend  who  loves  you  I  say  that  this  marriage  will  ap 
propriately  round  a  successful  and  honorable  and  intelli 
gent  life.  Eh,  we  are  only  men,  you  and  I,  and  it  is  ad- 
isable  that  all  men  should  marry,  since  otherwise  they 
might  be  so  happy  in  this  colorful  world  that  getting  to 
heaven  would  not  particularly  tempt  them.  Thus  is 
matrimony  a  bulwark  of  religion." 

"You  are  growing  scurrilous,"  Ormskirk  complained, 
"whereas  I  am  in  perfect  earnest." 

"I,  too,  speak  to  the  foot  of  the  letter,  Jean,  as  you 
will  soon  learn.  I  comprehend  that  you  cannot  with 
agreeability  marry  an  Englishwoman.  You  are  too  much 

1  For  a  consideration  of  the  vexed  and  delicate  question  whether 
or  no  Gaston  de  Puysange  was  grandson  to  King  Charles  the 
Second  of  England,  the  reader  is  referred  to  the  third  chapter 
of  La  Vrilliere's  De  Puysange  et  son  temps.  The  Duke's  re 
semblance  in  person  to  that  monarch  "was  undeniable. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  177 

the  personage.  Possessing,  as  you  notoriously  possess, 
your  pick  among  the  women  of  gentle  degree — for  none 
of  them  would  her  guardians  nor  her  good  taste  permit  to 
refuse  the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk, — any  choice  must 
therefore  be  a  too  robustious  affrontment  to  all  the 
others.  If  you  select  a  Howard,  the  Skirlaws  have  pep 
per  in  the  nose ;  if  a  Beaufort,  you  lose  Umf raville's  sup 
port, — and  so  on.  Hey,  I  know,  my  dear  Jean;  your 
affair  with  the  Earl  of  Brudenel's  daughter  cost  you 
seven  seats'  in  Parliament,  you  may  remember.  How  am 
I  aware  of  this? — why,  because  I 'habitually  have  your 
mail  intercepted.  You  intercept  mine,  do  you  not? 
Naturally;  you  would  be  a  very  gross  and  intolerable 
scion  of  the  pig  if  you  did  otherwise.  Eh  bien,  let  us  get 
on.  You  might,  of  course,  play  King  Cophetua,  but  I 
doubt  if  it  would  amuse  you,  since  Penelophons  are  rare; 
it  follows  in  logic  that  your  wife  must  come  from  abroad. 
And  whence?  Without  question,  from  France,  the  land 
of  adorable  women.  The  thing  is  plainly  demonstrated ; 
and  in  France,  my  dear,  I  have  to  an  eyelash  the  proper 
person  for  you." 

"Then  we  may  consider  the  affair  as  settled,"  Ormskirk 
replied,  "and  should  you  arrange  to  have  the  marriage 
take  place  upon  the  first  of  August, — if  possible,  a  trifle 
earlier, — I  would  be  trebly  your  debtor." 

De  Puysange  retorted:  "Beyond  doubt  I  can  adjust 
these  matters.  And  yet,  my  dear  Jean,  I  must  submit 
that  is  is  not  quite  the  act  of  a  gentleman  to  plunge  into 
matrimony  without  even  inquiring  as  to  the  dowry  of 
your  future  bride." 

"It  is  true,"  said  Ormskirk,  with  a  grimace;  "I  had 
not  thought  of  her  portion.  You  must  remember  my  at- 


178  GALLANTRY 


tention  is  at  present  pre-empted  by  that  idiotic  Ferrers 
business.  How  much  am  I  to  marry,  then,  Gaston?" 

"I  had  in  mind/'  said  the  other,  "my  sister,  the 
Demoiselle  Claire  de  Puysange, — " 

It  was  a  day  of  courtesy  when  the  minor  graces  were 
paramount.  Ormskirk  rose  and  accorded  de  Puysange  a 
salutation  fitted  to  an  emperor.  "I  entreat  your  pardon, 
sir,  for  any  gaitcherie  of  which  I  may  have  been  guilty, 
and  desire  to  extend  to  you  my  appreciation  of  the  honor 
you  have  done  me." 

"It  is  sufficient,  monsieur,"  de  Puysange  replied.  And 
the  two  gravely  bowed  again. 

Then  the  Frenchman  resumed,  in  conversational  tones : 
"I  have  but  one  unmarried  sister, — already  nineteen, 
beautiful  as  an  angel  (in  the  eyes,  at  least,  of  fraternal 
affection),  and  undoubtedly  as  headstrong  as  any  devil 
at  present  stoking  the  eternal  fires  below.  You  can  con 
ceive  that  the  disposal  of  such  a  person  is  a  delicate 
matter.  In  Poictesme  there  is  no  suitable  match,  and 
upon  the  other  hand  I  grievously  apprehend  her  pres 
entation  at  our  Court,  where,  as  Arouet  de  Voltaire  once 
observed  to  me,  the  men  are  lured  into  matrimony  by  the 
memories  of  their  past  sins,  and  the  women  by  the  im 
munity  it  promises  for  future  ones.  In  England,  where 
custom  will  permit  a  woman  to  be  both  handsome  and 
chaste,  I  estimate  she  wrould  be  admirably  ranged.  Ac 
cordingly,  my  dear  Jean,  behold  a  fact  accomplished. 
And  now  let  us  embrace,  my  brother !" 

This  was  done.  The  next  day  they  settled  the  matter 
of  dowry,  jointure,  the  widow's  portion,  and  so  on,  and 
de  Puysange  returned  to  render  his  report  at  Marly. 
The  wedding  had  been  fixed  by  the  Frenchman  for  St. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  179 

Anne's  day,  and  by  Ormskirk,  as  an  uncompromising 
churchman,  for  the  twenty-sixth  of  the  following  July. 

II 

That  evening  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  sat  alone  in  his 
lodgings.  His  Grace  was  very  splendid  in  black-and-gold, 
wearing  his  two  stars  of  the  Garter  and  the  Thistle,  for 
there  was  that  night  a  ball  at  Lady  Sandwich's,  and 
Royalty  was  to  embellish  it.  In  consequence,  Ormskirk 
meant  to  show  his  plump  face  there  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour;  and  the  rooms  would  be  too  hot  (he  peevishly  re 
flected),  and  the  light  would  tire  his  eyes,  and  Lavens- 
thrope  would  button-hole  him  again  about  that  appoint 
ment  for  Laventhrope's  son,  and  the  King  would  give 
vent  to  some  especially  fat-witted  jest,  and  Ormskirk 
would  apishly  grin  and  applaud.  And  afterward  he 
would  come  home  with  a  headache,  and  ghostly  fiddles 
would  vex  him  all  night  long  with  their  thin  incessancy. 

"Accordingly,"  the  Duke  decided,  "I  shall  not  stir  a 
step  until  eleven  o'clock.  The  King,  in  the  ultimate,  is 
only  a  tipsy,  ignorant  old  German  debauchee,  and  I  have 
half  a  mind  to  tell  him  so.  Meantime,  he  can  wait." 

The  Duke  sat  down  to  consider  this  curious  lassitude, 
this  indefinite  vexation,  which  had  possessed  him. 

"For  I  appear  to  have  taken  a  sudden  dislike  to  the 
universe.  It  is  probably  my  liver. 

"In  any  event,  I  have  come  now  to  the  end  of  my 
resources.  For  some  twenty-five  years  it  has  amused  me 
to  make  a  great  man  of  John  Bulmer.  Now  that  is  done, 
and,  like  the  Moorish  fellow  in  the  play,  'my  occupation's 
gone/  I  am  at  the  very  top  of  the  ladder,  and  I  find  it 


180  GALLANTRY 


the  dreariest  place  in  the  world.  There  is  nothing  left 
to  scheme  for,  and,  besides,  I  am  tired. 

"The  tiniest  nerve  in  my  body,  the  innermost  cell  of 
my  brain,  is  tired  to-night. 

"I  wonder  if  getting  married  will  divert  me?  I  doubt 
it.  Of  course  I  ought  to  marry,  bat  then  it  must  be 
rather  terrible  to  have  a  woman  loitering  around  you  for 
the  rest  of  your  life.  She  will  probably  expect  me  to  talk 
to  her ;  she  will  probably  come  into  my  rooms  and  sit  there 
whenever  the  inclination  prompts  her, — in  a  sentence,  she 
will  probably  worry  me  to  death.  Eh  well ! — that  die  is 
cast! 

"  'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil.' 
And  what's  her  name? — Oh,  yes,  Claire.  That  is  a  very 
silly  name,  and  I  suppose  she  is  a  vixenish  little  idiot. 
However,  the  alliance  is  a  sensible  one.  De  Puysange 
has  had  it  in  mind  for  some  six  months,  I  think,  but 
certainly  I  did  not  think  he  knew  of  my  affair  with 
Marian.  Well,  but  he  affects  omniscience,  he  delights 
in  every  small  chicane.  He  is  rather  droll.  Yesterday 
he  knew  from  the  start  that  I  was  leading  up  to  a 
proposal  for  his  sister, — and  yet  there  we  sat,  two  solemn 
fools,  and  played  our  tedious  comedy  to  a  finish.  Eh 
bien!  as  he  says,  it  is  necessary  to  keep  one's  hand  in. 

"  'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil' — 
Alison  was  not  headstrong." 

Ormskirk  rose  suddenly  and  approached  an  open  win 
dow.  It  was  a  starless  night,  temperately  cool,  with  no 
air  stirring.  Below  was  a  garden  of  some  sort,  and  a  flat 
roof  which  would  be  that  of  the  stables,  and  beyond, 
abrupt  as  a  painted  scene,  a  black  wall  of  houses  stood 
against  a  steel-colored,  vacant  sky,  reaching  precisely  to 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  181 

the  middle  of  the  vista.  Only  a  solitary  poplar,  to  the 
rear  of  the  garden,  qualified  this  sombre  monotony  of 
right  angles.  Ormskirk  saw  the  world  as  an  ugly  me 
chanical  drawing,  fashioned  for  utility,  meticulously  out 
lined  with  a  ruler.  Yet  there  was  a  scent  of  growing 
things  to  nudge  the  senses. 

"No,  Alison  was  different.  And  Alison  has  been  dead 
near  twenty  years.  And  God  help  me !  I  no  longer  re 
gret  even  Alison.  I  should  have  been  more  truthful  in 
talking  with  poor  Harry  Heleigh.  But,  as  always,  the 
temptation  to  be  picturesque  was  irresistible.  Besides, 
the  truth  is  humiliating. 

"The  real  tragedy  of  life  is  to  learn  that  it  is  not  really 
tragic.  To  learn  that  the  world  is  gross,  that  it  lacks 
nobility,  that  to  considerate  persons  it  must  be  in  effect 
quite  unimportant, — here  are  commonplaces,  sweepings 
from  the  tub  of  the  immaturest  cynic.  But  to  learn  that 
you  yourself  were  thoughtfully  constructed  in  harmony 
with  the  world  you  were  to  live  in,  that  you  yourself  are 
incapable  of  any  great  passion — eh,  this  is  an  athletic 
blow  to  human  vanity.  Well!  I  acknowledge  it.  My 
love  for  Alison  Pleydell  was  the  one  sincere  thing  in  my 
life.  And  it  is  dead.  I  do  not  think  of  her  once  a  month. 
I  do  not  regret  her  except  when  I  am  tipsy  or  bored  or 
listening  to  music,  and  wish  to  fancy  myself  the  pictur 
esque  victim  of  a  flint-hearted  world.  Which  is  a  roman 
tic  lie;  I  move  like  a  man  of  card-board  in  a  card-board 
world.  Certain  faculties  and  tastes  and  mannerisms  I 
undoubtedly  possess,  but  if  I  have  any  personality  at  all, 
I  am  not  aware  of  it;  I  am  a  mechanism  that  eats  and 
sleeps  and  clumsily  perambulates  a  ball  that  spins  around 
a  larger  ball  that  revolves  about  another,  and  so  on  ad 


182  GALLANTRY 


infinitum.  Some  day  the  mechanism  will  be  broken.  Or 
it  will  slowly  wear  out,  perhaps.  And  then  it  will  go  to 
the  dust-heap.  And  that  will  be  the  end  of  the  great 
Duke  of  Ormskirk. 

"John  Bulmer  did  not  think  so.  It  is  true  that  John 
Bulmer  was  a  magnanimous  fool, —  Upon  the  other 
hand,  John  Bulmer  would  never  have  stared  out  of  an 
ugly  window  at  an  uglier  landscape  and  have  talked  yet 
uglier  nonsense  to  it.  He  would  have  been  off  post-haste 
after  the  young  person  who  is  'beautiful  as  an  angel  and 
headstrong  as  a  devil.'  And  afterward  he  would  have 
been  very  happy  or  else  very  miserable.  I  begin  to  think 
that  John  Bulmer  was  more  sensible  than  the  great  Duk- 
of  Ormskirk.  I  would — I  would  that  he  were  still  alive." 

His  Grace  slapped  one  palm  against  his  thigh  with 
unwonted  vigor.  "Behold,  what  I  am  longing  fr "!  I 
am  longing  for  John  Bulmer." 

Presently  he  sounded  the  gong  upon  his  desk.  And 
presently  he  said  :  "My  adorable  Pawsey,  the  great  Duke 
of  Ormskirk  is  now  going  to  pay  his  respects  to  George 
Guelph,  King  of  Britain,  France,  arid  Ireland,  defender 
of  the  faith,  Duke  of  Brunswick  and  Lunenburg,  and 
supreme  head  of  the  Anglican  and  Hibernian  Church, 
And  to-morrow  Mr.  John  Bulmer  will  set  forth  upon  a 
little  journey  into  Poictesme.  You  will  obligingly  pack 
a  valise.  No,  I  shall  not  require  you, — for  John  Bulmer 
was  entirely  capable  of  dressing  and  shaving  himself. 
So  kindly  go  to  the  devil,  Pawsey,  and  stop  staring  at 
me." 

Later  in  the  evening  Pawsey,  a  thought  mellowed  by 
the  ale  of  Dover,  deplored  with  tears  the  instability  of  a 
nation  whose  pilots  were  addicted  to  tippling. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  183 

"Drunk  as  David's  sow !"  said  Pawsey,  "and  'im  in  the 
hactual  presence  of  'is  Sacred  Majesty!" 

Ill 

Thus  it  came  about  that,  five  days  later,  arrived  at 
Bellegarde  Mr.  John  Bulmer,  kinsman  and  accredited 
emissary  of  the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk.  He  brought 
with  him  and  in  due  course  delivered  a  casket  of  jewels 
and  a  letter  from  the  Duke  to  his  betrothed.  The  dia 
monds  were  magnificent,  and  the  letter  was  a  paragon  of 
polite  ardors. 

Mr.  Bulmer  found  the  chateau  in  charge  of  a  distant 
cousin  to  de  Puysange,  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt;  with 
whom  were  the  Duchess,  a  gentle  and  beautiful  lady,  her 
two  children,  and  the  Demoiselle  Claire.  The  Duke  him 
self  was  still  at  Marly,  with  most  of  his  people,  but  at 
Bellegarde  momentarily  they  looked  for  his  return. 
Meanwhile  de  Soyecourt,  an  exquisite  and  sociable  and 
immoral  young  gentleman  of  forty-one,  was  lonely,  and 
protested  that  any  civilized  company  was,  in  the  oafish 
provinces,  a  charity  of  celestial  pre-arrangement.  He 
would  not  hear  of  Mr.  Buhner's  leaving  Bellegarde;  and 
after  a  little  protestation  the  latter  proved  persuadable. 

"Mr.  Bulmer,"  the  Duke's  letter  of  introduction  in 
formed  the  Marquis,  "is  my  kinsman  and  may  be  re 
garded  as  discreet.  The  evanishment  of  his  tiny  patri 
mony,  spirited  away  some  years  ago  by  divers  over- 
friendly  ladies,  hath  taught  the  man  humility,  and  pro 
cured  for  me  the  privilege  of  paying  for  his  support :  but 
I  find  him  more  valuable  than  his  cost.  He  is  tolerably 
honest,  not  too  often  tipsy,  makes  an  excellent  salad, 


184  GALLANTRY 


and  will  convey  a  letter  or  hold  a  door  with  fidelity  and 
despatch.  Employ  his  services,  monsieur,  if  you  have 
need  of  them ;  I  place  him  at  your  command." 

In  fine,  they  at  Bellegarde  judged  Mr.  Bulmer  to  rank 
somewhere  between  lackeyship  and  gentility,  and  treated 
him  in  accordance.  It  was  an  age  of  parasitism,  and 
John  Bulmer,  if  a  parasite,  was  the  Phormio  of  a  very 
great  man:  when  his  patron  expressed  a  desire  Mr.  Bul 
mer  fulfilled  it  without  boggling  over  inconvenient  scru 
ples,  perhaps;  and  there  was  the  worst  that  could  with 
equity  be  said  of  him.  An  impoverished  gentleman  must 
live  somehow,  and,  deuce  take  it!  there  must  be  rather 
pretty  pickings  among  the  broken  meats  of  an  Ormskirk. 
To  this  effect  de  Soyecourt  moralized  one  evening  as  the 
two  sat  over  their  wine. 

John  Bulmer  candidly  assented.  "I  live  as  best  I 
may,"  he  said.  "In  a  word  'I  am  his  Highness'  dog  at 
Kew — *  But  mark  you,  I  do  not  complete  the  quotation, 
monsieur." 

"Which  ends,  as  I  remember  it,  'I  pray  you,  sir,  whose 
dog1  are  you?'  Well,  Mr.  Bulmer,  each  of  us  wards  his 
own  kennel  somewhere,  whether  it  be  in  a  king's  court 
or  in  a  woman's  heart,  and  it  is  necessary  that  he  pay 
the  rent  of  it  in  such  coin  as  the  owner  may  demand. 
Beggars  cannot  be  choosers,  Mr.  Bulmer."  The  Marquis 
went  away  moodily,  and  John  Bulmer  poured  out  another 
glass. 

"Were  I  Gaston  you  would  not  kennel  here,  my  friend. 
The  Duchess  has  too  many  claims  to  be  admired, — for 
undoubtedly  people  do  go  about  unchained  who  can  ad 
mire  a  blonde, — and  always  your  eyes  follow  her.  I 
noticed  it  a  week  ago." 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  185 

And  during  this  week  Mr.  Bulmer  had  seen  a  deal  of 
Claire  de  Puysange,  with  results  that  you  will  presently 
ascertain.  It  was  natural  she  should  desire  to  learn 
something  of  the  man  she  was  so  soon  to  marry,  and  of 
whose  personality  she  was  so  ignorant ;  she  had  not  even 
seen  a  picture  of  him,  by  example.  Was  he  handsome  ? 

John  Bulmer  believed  him  rather  remarkably  hand 
some,  when  you  considered  how  frequently  his  love- 
affairs  had  left  disastrous  souvenirs :  yes,  for  a  man  in 
middle  life  so  often  patched  up  by  quack  doctors,  Orms- 
kirk  looked  wholesome  enough,  said  Mr.  Bulmer.  He 
may  have  had  his  occult  purposes,  this  poor  cousin,  but 
of  Ormskirk  he  undoubtedly  spoke  with  engaging  candor. 
Here  was  no  parasite  cringingly  praising  his  patron  to  the 
skies.  The  Duke's  career  was  touched  on,  with  its  grimy 
passages  no  whit  extenuated:  before  Dettingen  Cousin 
Ormskirk  had,  it  must  be  confessed,  taken  a  bribe  from 
de  Noailles,  and  in  return  had  seen  to  it  that  the  English 
did  not  follow  up  their  empty  victory;  and  'twas  well 
known  Ormskirk  got  his  dukedom  through  the  Countess 
of  Yarmouth,  to  whom  the  King  could  deny  nothing. 
What  were  the  Duke's  relations  with  this  liberal  lady  ? — 
a  shrug  rendered  Mr.  Bulmer's  avowal  of  ignorance 
tolerably  explicit.  Then,  too,  Mr.  Bulmer  readily  con 
ceded,  the  Duke's  atrocities  after  Culloden  were  some 
what  over-notorious  for  denial :  all  the  prisoners  were 
shot  out-of-hand;  seventy-two  of  them  were  driven  into 
an  inn-yard  and  massacred  en  masse.  Yes,  there  were 
women  among  them,  but  not  over  a  half-dozen  children, 
at  most.  Mademoiselle  was  not  to  class  his  noble  patron 
with  Herod,  understand, — only  a  few  brats  of  no  impor 
tance. 


186  GALLANTRY 


In  fine,  he  told  her  all  the  highly  colored  tales  that  envy 
and  malice  and  ignorance  had  been  able  to  concoct  con 
cerning  the  great  Duke.  Many  of  them  John  Bulmer 
knew  to  be  false ;  nevertheless,  he  had  a  large  mythology 
to  choose  from,  he  picked  his  instances  with  care,  he  nar 
rated  them  with  gusto  and  discretion, — and  in  the  end  he 
got  his  reward. 

For  the  girl  rose,  flame-faced,  and  burlesqued  a  courtesy 
in  his  direction.  "Monsieur  Bulmer,  I  make  you  my 
compliments.  You  have  very  fully  explained  what  man 
ner  of  man  is  this  to  whom  my  brother  has  sold  me." 

"And  wherefore  do  you  accord  me  this  sudden  adula 
tion  ?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"Because  in  France  we  have  learned  that  lackeys  are 
always  powerful.  Le  Bel  is  here  omnipotent,  Monsieur 
Bulmer ;  but  he  is  lackey  to  a  satyr  only :  and  therefore, 
I  felicitate  you,  monsieur,  who  are  lackey  to  a  fiend." 

John  Bulmer  looked  rather  grave.  "Civility  is  an  in 
expensive  wear,  mademoiselle,  but  it  becomes  every 
body." 

"Lackey !"  she  flung  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  left  him. 

John  Bulmer  began  to  whistle  an  air  then  popular 
across  the  Channel.  Later  his  melody  was  stilled. 

"  'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil !' ' 
said  John  Bulmer.  "You  have  an  eye,  Gaston !" 

IV 

That  evening  came  a  letter  from  Gaston  to  de  Soye- 
court,  which  the  latter  read  aloud  at  supper.  Gossip  of 
the  court  it  was  for  the  most  part,  garrulous,  and  pep 
pered  with  deductions  of  a  caustic  and  diverting  sort,  but 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  187 

containing  no  word  of  a  return  to  Bellegarde,  in  this 
vocal  rendering.  For  in  the  reading  one  paragraph  was 
elided. 

"I  arrive,"  the  Duke  had  written,  " within  three  or  at 
most  four  days  after  this  will  be  received.  You  are  to 
breathe  not  a  syllable  of  my  coming,  dear  Louis,  for  I 
do  not  come  alone.  Achille  Cazaio  has  intimidated 
Poictesme  long  enough ;  I  consider  it  is  not  desirable  that 
a  peer  of  France  should  be  at  the  mercy  of  a  chicken- 
thief,  particularly  when  Fortune  whispers,  as  the  lady 
now  does : 

"Viens  punir  le  coupable; 
Les  oracles,  les  dieux,  tout  nous  est  favorable. 

"Understand,  in  fine,  that  Madame  de  Pompadour  has 
graciously  obtained  for  me  the  loan  of  the  dragoons  of 
Entrechat  for  an  entire  fortnight,  so  that  I  return  not 
in  submission,  but,  like  Csesar  and  Coriolanus  and  other 
exiled  captains  of  antiquity,  at  the  head  of  a  glorious 
army.  We  will  harry  the  Taunenfels,  we  will  hang  the 
vile  bandit  more  high  than  Haman  of  old,  we  will,  in  a 
word,  enjoy  the  supreme  pleasure  of  the  chase,  enhanced 
by  the  knowledge  we  pursue  a  note-worthy  quarry. 
Homicide  is,  after  all,  the  most  satisfying  recreation  life 
affords  us,  since  man  alone  knows  how  thoroughly  man 
deserves  to  be  slaughtered.  A  tiger,  now,  has  his  de 
ficiencies,  perhaps,  viewed  as  a  roommate;  yet  a  tiger  is 
at  least  acceptable  to  the  eye,  a  vision  very  pleasantly 
suggestive,  we  will  say,  of  buttered  toast;  whereas,  our 
fellow-creatures,  my  dear  Louis, — "  And  in  this  strain 
de  Puysange  continued,  with  intolerably  scandalous  ex 
amples  as  parapets  for  his  argument. 


188  GALLANTRY 


That  night  de  Soyecourt  re-read  this  paragraph.  "So 
the  Pompadour  has  kindly  tendered  him  the  loan  of  cer 
tain  dragoons?  She  is  very  fond  of  Gaston,  is  la  petite 
fitoiles,  beyond  doubt.  And  accordingly  her  dragoons 
are  to  garrison  Bellegarde  for  a  whole  fortnight.  Good, 
good!"  said  the  Marquis;  "I  think  that  all  goes 
well." 

He  sat  for  a  long  while,  smiling,  preoccupied  with  his 
imaginings,  which  were  far  adrift  in  the  future.  Louis 
de  Soyecourt  was  a  subtle  little  man,  freakish  and  amiable, 
and,  on  a  minute  scale,  handsome.  He  reminded  people 
of  a  dissipated  elf;  his  excesses  were  notorious,  yet  al 
ways  he  preserved  the  face  •&  an  ecclesiastic  and  the  eyes 
of  an  aging  seraph ;  and  bodily  there  was  as  yet  no  trace 
of  the  corpulence  which  marred  his  later  years. 

To-night  he  slept  soundly.  His  conscience  was  always, 
they  say,  to  the  very  end  of  his  long  life,  the  conscience 
of  a  child,  vulnerable  by  physical  punishment,  but  by 
nothing  else. 


Next  day  John  Bulmer  rode  through  the  Forest  of 
Acaire,  and  sang  as  he  went.  Yet  he  disapproved  of  the 
country. 

"For  I  am  of  the  opinion,"  John  Bulmer  meditated, 
"that  France  just  now  is  too  much  like  a  flower-garden 
situate  upon  the  slope  of  a  volcano.  The  eye  is  pleas 
antly  titillated,  but  the  ear  catches  eloquent  rumblings. 
This  is  not  a  very  healthy  country,  I  think.  These 
shaggy-haired,  dumb  peasants  trouble  me.  I  had  thought 
France  a  nation  of  de  Puysanges ;  I  find  it  rather  a  nation 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  189 

of  beasts  who  are  growing  hungry.  Presently  they  will 
begin  to  feed,  and  I  am  not  at  all  certain  as  to  the  urbanity 
of  their  table  manners." 

However,  it  was  no  affair  of  his ;  so  he  put  the  matter 
out  of  mind,  and  as  he  rode  through  the  forest,  carolled 
blithely.  Trees  were  marshalled  on  each  side  with  an 
effect  of  colonnades;  everywhere  there  was  a  sniff  of 
the  cathedral,  of  a  cheery  cathedral  all  green  and  gold 
and  full-bodied  browns,  where  the  industrious  motes 
swam,  like  the  fishes  fairies  angle  for,  in  every  long  and 
rigid  shaft  of  sunlight, — or  rather  (John  Buhner  de 
cided),  as  though  Time  had  just  passed  by  with  a  broom, 
intent  to  garnish  the  least  nook  of  Acaire  against  Spring's 
occupancy  of  it.  Then  there  were  tiny  white  butterflies, 
frail  as  dream-stuff.  There  were  anemones;  and  John 
Bulmer  sighed  at  their  insolent  perfection.  Theirs  was 
a  frank  allure;  in  the  solemn  forest  they  alone  of  grow 
ing  things  were  wanton,  for  they  coquetted  with  the  wind, 
and  their  pink  was  the  pink  of  flesh. 

He  recollected  that  he  was  corpulent — and  forty-five. 
"And  yet,  praise  Heaven,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "something 
stirs  in  this  sleepy  skull  of  mine." 

Sang  John  Bulmer : 

"April  wakes,  and  the  gifts  are  good 
Which  April  grants  in  this  lonely  wood 
Mid  the  wistful  sounds  of  a  solitude, 
Whose  immemorial  murmuring 
Is  the  voice  of  Spring 
And  murmurs  the  burden  of  burgeoning. 

"April  wakes,  and  her  heart  is  high, 
For  the  Bassarids  and  the  Fauns  are  nigh, 
And  prosperous  leaves  lisp  busily 


190  GALLANTRY 


Over  fluttered  brakes,  whence  the  breezes  bring 

Vext  twittering 

To  swell  the  burden  of  burgeoning. 

"April  wakes,  and  afield,  astray, 
She  calls  to  whom  at  the  end  I  say, 
iHeart  o'  my  Heart,  I  am  thine  alway, — 
And  I  follow,  follow  her  carolling, 
For  I  hear  her  sing 
Above  the  burden  of  burgeoning. 

"April  wakes ; — it  were  good  to  live 
(Yet  April  passes),  though  April  give 
No  other  gift  for  our  pleasuring 
Than  the  old,  old  burden  of  burgeoning—" 

He  paused  here.  Not  far  ahead  a  woman's  voice  had 
given  a  sudden  scream,  followed  by  continuous  calls  for 
aid. 

"Now,  if  I  choose,  will  begin  the  first  fytte  of  John 
Bulmer's  adventures,"  he  meditated,  leisurely.  "The 
woman  is  in  some  sort  of  trouble.  If  I  go  to  her  assist 
ance  I  shall  probably  involve  myself  in  a  most  unattrac 
tive  mess,  and  eventually  be  arrested  by  the  constable, — 
if  they  have  any  constables  in  this  operatic  domain,  the 
which  I  doubt.  I  shall  accordingly  emulate  the  example 
of  the  long-headed  Levite,  and  sensibly  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  Halt!  I  there  recognize  the  voice  of  the 
Duke  of  Ormskirk.  I  came  into  this  country  to  find 
John  Bulmer;  and  John  Bulmer  would  most  certainly 
have  spurred  his  gallant  charger  upon  the  craven  who 
is  just  now  molesting  yonder  female.  In  consequence, 
my  gallant  charger,  we  will  at  once  proceed  to  confound 
the  dastardly  villain." 

He  came  presently  into  an  open  glade,  which  the  keen 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  191 

sunlight  lit  without  obstruction.  Obviously  arranged, 
was  his  first  appraisal  of  the  tableau  there  presented.  A 
woman  in  blue  half -knelt,  half -lay,  upon  the  young  grass, 
while  a  man,  bending  over,  fettered  her  hands  behind  her 
back.  A  swarthy  and  exuberantly  bearded  fellow,  at 
tired  in  green-and-russet,  stood  beside  them,  displaying 
magnificent  teeth  in  exactly  the  grin  which  hieratic  art 
imputes  to  devils.  Yet  farther  off  a  Dominican  Friar 
sat  upon  a  stone  and  displayed  rather  more  unctuous 
amusement.  Three  horses  and  a  mule  diversified  the 
background.  All  in  all,  a  thought  larger  than  life,  a 
shade  too  obviously  posed,  a  sign-painter's  notion  of  a 
heroic  picture,  was  John  Bulmer's  verdict.  From  his 
holster  he  drew  a  pistol. 

The  lesser  rascal  rose  from  the  prostrate  woman. 
"Finished,  my  captain, — "  he  began.  Against  the  forest 
verdure  he  made  an  excellent  mark.  John  Bulmer  shot 
him  neatly  through  the  head. 

Startled  by  the  detonation,  the  Friar  and  the  man  in 
green-and-russet  wheeled  about  to  find  Mr.  Bulmer,  with 
his  most  heroical  bearing,  negligently  replacing  the  dis 
charged  pistol.  The  woman  lay  absolutely  still,  face 
downward,  in  a  clump  of  fern. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  lament  that  your 
sylvan  diversions  should  be  thus  interrupted  by  the  fact 
that  an  elderly  person  like  myself,  quite  old  enough  to 
know  better,  has  seen  fit  to  adopt  the  pursuit  of  knight- 
errantry.  You  need,  not  trouble  yourselves  about  your 
companion,  for  I  have  blown  out  most  of  the  substance 
nature  intended  him  to  think  with.  One  of  you,  I  regret 
to  observe,  is  rendered  immune  by  the  garb  of  an  order 
which  I  consider  misguided,  indeed,  but  with  which  I 


192  GALLANTRY 


have  no  quarrel.  With  the  other  I  beg  leave  to  request 
the  honor  of  exchanging  a  few  passes  as  the  recumbent 
lady's  champion." 

"Sacred  blue!"  remarked  the  bearded  man;  "you  pre 
sume  to  oppose,  then,  of  all  persons,  me!  You  fool,  I 
am  Achille  Cazaio !" 

"I  deplore  the  circumstance  that  I  am  not  overwhelmed 
by  the  revelation,"  John  Bulmer  said,  as  he  dismounted, 
"and  I  entreat  you  to  bear  in  mind,  friend  Achille,  that 
in  Poictesme  I  am  a  stranger.  And,  unhappily,  the  names 
of  many  estimable  persons  have  not  an  international 
celebrity."  Thus  speaking,  he  drew  and  placed  himself 
on  guard. 

With  a  shrug  the  Friar  turned  and  reseated  himself 
upon  the  stone.  He  appeared  a  sensible  man.  But 
Cazaio  flashed  out  a  long  sword  and  hurled  himself  upon 
John  Bulmer. 

Cazaio  thus  obtained  a  butcherly  thrust  in  the 
shoulder.  "Friend  Achille,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "that 
was  tolerably  severe  for  a  first  hit.  Does  it  content  you  ?" 

The  hairy  man  raged.  "Eh,  my  God  !"  Cazaio  shrieked, 
"do  you  mock  me,  you  misbegotten  one!  Before  you 
can  give  me  such  another  I  shall  have  settled  you  out 
right.  Already  hell  gapes  for  you.  Fool,  I  am  Achille 
Cazaio!" 

"Yes,  yes,  you  had  mentioned  that,"  said  his  opponent. 
"And,  in  return,  allow  me  to  present  Mr.  John  Bulmer, 
thoroughly  enjoying  himself  for  the  first  time  in  a  quar 
ter  of  a  century.  Angelo  taught  me  this  thrust.  Can 
you  parry  it,  friend  Achille?"  Mr.  Bulmer  cut  open 
the  other's  forehead. 

"Well  done!"  Cazaio  grunted.     He  attacked  with  re- 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  193 

newed  fury,  but  now  the  blood  was  streaming  down  his 
face  and  into  his  eyes  in  such  a  manner  that  he  was 
momentarily  compelled  to  carry  his  hand  toward  his 
countenance  in  order  to  wipe  away  the  heavy  trickle. 
John  Bulmer  lowered  his  point. 

"Friend  Achille,  it  is  not  reasonable  I  should  continue 
our  engagement  to  its  denouement,  since  by  that  boastful 
parade  of  skill  I  have  inadvertently  turned  you  into  a 
blind  man.  Can  you  not  stanch  your  wound  sufficiently 
to  make  possible  a  renewal  of  our  exercise  on  somewhat 
more  equal  terms?" 

"Not  now,"  the  other  replied,  breathing  heavily, — "not 
now,  Monsieur  Bulmaire.  You  have  conquered,  and  the 
woman  is  yours.  Yet  lend  me  my  life  for  a  little  till  I 
may  meet  you  more  equitably.  I  will  not  fail  you,— I 
swear  it — I,  Achille  Cazaio." 

"Why,  God  bless  my  soul!"  said  John  Bulmer,  "do 
you  imagine  that  I  am  forming  a  collection  of  vagrant 
females?  Permit  me,  pray,  to  assist  you  to  your  horse. 
And  if  you  would  so  far  honor  me  as  to  accept  the  tempo 
rary  loan  of  my  handkerchief — " 

Solicitously  Mr.  Bulmer  bound  up  his  opponent's  head, 
and  more  lately  aided  him  to  mount  one  of  the  grazing 
horses.  Cazaio  was  moved  to  say : 

"You  are  a  gallant  enemy,  Monsieur  Bulmaire.  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  cutting  your  throat  on  Thursday 
next,  if  that  date  be  convenient  to  you." 

"Believe  me,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  am  always  at  your 
disposal.  Let  this  spot,  then,  be  our  rendezvous,  since 
I  am  wofully  ignorant  concerning  your  local  geography. 
And  meantime,  my  friend,  if  I  may  be  so  bold,  I  would 
suggest  a  little  practice  in  parrying.  You  are  of  Bois- 


194  GALLANTRY 


robert's  school,  I  note,  and  in  attack  undeniably  brilliant, 
whereas  your  defence — unvarying  defect  of  Boisrobert's 
followers! — is  lamentably  weak." 

"I  perceive  that  monsieur  is  a  connoisseur  in  these 
matters,"  said  Cazaio;  "I  am  the  more  highly  honored. 
Till  Thursday,  then."  And  with  an  inclination  of  his 
bandaged  head — and  a  furtive  glance  toward  the  insen 
sate  woman, — he  rode  away  singing. 

Sang  Achille  Cazaio : 

"But,  oh,  the  world  is  wide,  dear  lass, 
That  I  must  wander  through, 
And  many  a  wind  and  tide,  dear  lass, 
Must  flow  'twixt  me  and  you, 
Ere  love  that  may  not  be  denied 
Shall  bring  me  back  to  you, 
—Dear  lass ! 
Shall  bring  me  back  to  you." 

Thus  singing,  he  disappeared;  meantime  John  Bulmer 
had  turned  toward  the  woman.  The  Dominican  sat  upon 
the  stone,  placidly  grinning. 

"And  now,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "we  revert  to  the  origin 
of  all  this  tomfoolery, — who,  true  to  every  instinct  of  her 
sex,  has  caused  as  much  trouble  as  lay  within  her  power 
and  then  fainted.  A  little  water  from  the  brook,  if  you 
will  be  so  good,  Master  Friar, —  Hey! — why,  you 
damned  rascal!" 

As  John  Bulmer  bent  above  the  woman  the  Friar  had 
stabbed  John  Bulmer  between  the  shoulders.  The  dag 
ger  broke  like  glass. 

"Oh,  the  devil !"  said  the  churchman ;  "what  sort  of  a 
duellist  is  this  who  fights  in  a-  shirt  of  Milanese  armor !" 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  195 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  silent,  in  sincere  horror.  "I  lack 
words,"  he  said, — "Oh,  vile  coward !  I  lack  words  to  ar 
raign  this  hideous  revelation!  There  is  a  code  of  honor 
that  obtains  all  jover  the  world,  and  any  duellist  who  de 
scends  to  secret  armor  is,  as  you  are  perfectly  aware, 
guilty  of  supersticery.  He  is  no  fit  associate  for  gentle 
men,  he  is  rather  the  appropriate  companion  of  Korah, 
Dathan,  and  Abiram  in  their  fiery  pit.  Faugh,  you  sneak- 
thief!" 

John  Bulmer  was  a  thought  abashed,  and  for  an  instant 
showed  it.  Then,  "Permit  me,"  he  equably  replied,  "to 
point  out  that  I  did  not  come  hither  with  any  belligerent 
intent.  My  undershirt,  therefore,  I  was  entitled  to  regard 
as  a  purely  natural  advantage, — as  much  so  as  would  have 
been  a  greater  length  of  arm,  which,  you  conceive,  does 
not  obligate  a  gentleman  to  cut  off  his  fingers  before  he 
fights." 

"I  scent  the  casuist,"  said  the  Friar,  shaking  his  head. 
"Frankly,  you  had  hoodwinked  me :  I  was  admiring  you 
as  a  second  Palmerin ;  and  all  the  while  you  were  letting 
off  those  gasconades,  adopting  those  heroic  postures,  and 
exhibiting  such  romantic  magnanimity,  you  were  actually 
as  safe  from  poor  Cazaio  as  though  you  had  been  in  Crim 
Tartary  rather  than  Acaire !" 

"But  the  pose  was  magnificent,"  John  Bulmer  pleaded, 
"and  I  have  a  leaning  that  way  when  one  loses  nothing 
by  it.  Besides,  I  consider  secret  armor  to  be  no  more 
than  a  rational  precaution  in  any  country  where  the 
clergy  are  addicted  to  casual  assassination." 

"It  is  human  to  err,"  the  Friar  replied,  "and  Cazaio 
would  have  given  me  a  thousand  crowns  for  your  head. 
Believe  me,  the  man  is  meditating  some  horrible  mischief 


196  GALLANTRY 


against  you,  for  otherwise  he  would  not  have  been  so 
damnably  polite." 

"The  information  is  distressing,"  said  John  Bulmer; 
and  added,  "This  Cazaio  appears  to  be  a  personage  ?" 

"I  retort,"  said  the  Friar,  "that  your  ignorance  is  even 
more  remarkable  than  my  news.  Achille  Cazaio  is  the 
bugbear  of  all  Poictesme,  he  is  as  powerful  in  these  parts 
as  ever  old  Manuel  was." 

"But  I  have  never  heard  of  this  old  Manuel  either — " 

"In  fact,  your  ignorance  seems  limitless.  For  any 
child  could  tell  you  that  Cazaio  roosts  in  the  Taunenfels 
yonder,  with  some  hundreds  of  brigands  in  his  company. 
Poictesme  is,  in  effect,  his  pocket-book,  from  which  he 
takes  whatever  he  has  need  of,  and  the  Due  cle  Puysange, 
our  nominal  lord,  pays  him  an  annual  tribute  to  respect 
Bellegarde." 

"This  appears  to  be  an  unusual  country,"  quoth  John 
Bulmer;  "where  a  brigand  rules,  and  the  forests  are 
infested  by  homicidal  clergymen  and  harassed  females. 
Which  reminds  me  that  I  have  been  guilty  of  an  act  of 
ungallantry, — and  faith !  while  you  and  I  have  been  chat 
ting,  the  lady,  with  a  rare  discretion,  has  peacefully  come 
back  to  her  senses." 

"She  has  regained  nothing  very  valuable,"  said  the 
Friar,  with  a  shrug.  "Alone  in  Acaire!"  But  John 
Bulmer  had  assisted  the  woman  to  her  feet,  and  had  given 
a  little  cry  at  sight  of  her  face,  and  now  he  stood  quite 
motionless,  holding  both  her  unfettered  hands. 

"You!"  he  said.  And  when  speech  returned  to  him, 
after  a  lengthy  interval,  he  spoke  with  odd  irrelevance. 
"Now  I  appear  to  understand  why  God  created  me." 

He  was  puzzled.     For  there  had  come  to  him,  un- 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  197 

heralded  and  simply,  a  sense  of  something  infinitely 
greater  than  his  mind  could  conceive;  and  analysis  might 
only  pluck  at  it,  impotently,  as  a  wearied  swimmer  might 
pluck  at  the  sides  of  a  well.  Ormskirk  and  Ormskirk's 
powers  now  somehow  dwindled  from  the  zone  of  serious 
consideration,  as  did  the  radiant  world,  and  even  the 
woman  who  stood  before  him ;  trifles,  these :  and  his  con 
tentment  spurned  the  stars  to  know  that,  somehow,  this 
woman  and  he  were  but  a  part,  an  infinitesimal  part,  of 
a  scheme  which  was  ineffably  vast  and  perfect.  .  .  .  That 
was  the  knowledge  he  sensed,  unwordably,  as  he  regarded 
this  woman  now. 

She  was  tall,  just  as  tall  as  he.  It  was  a  blunt-witted 
devil  who  whispered  John  Bulmer  that,  inch  paralleling 
inch,  the  woman  is  taller  than  the  man  and  subtly  renders 
him  absurd ;  and  that  in  a  decade  this  woman  would  be 
stout.  There  was  no  meaning  now  in  any  whispering 
save  hers.  John  Bulmer  perceived,  with  a  blurred  thrill, 
— as  if  of  memory,  as  if  he  were  recollecting  something 
once  familiar  to  him,  a  great  while  ago, — that  the  girl 
was  tall  and  deep-bosomed,  and  that  her  hair  was  dark, 
all  crinkles,  but  (he  somehow  knew)  very  soft  to  the 
touch.  The  full  oval  of  her  face  had  throughout  the 
rich  tint  of  cream,  so  that  he  now  understood  the  blowzi- 
ness  of  pink  cheeks;  but  her  mouth  was  vivid.  It  was 
a  mouth  not  wholly  deficient  in  attractions,  he  estimated. 
Z.  Her  nose  managed  to  be  Roman  without  overdoing  it. 
And  her  eyes,  candid  and  appraising,  he  found  to  be  the 
color  that  blue  is  in  Paradise ;  it  was  odd  their  lower  lids 
should  be  straight  lines,  so  that  when  she  laughed  her 
eyes  were  converted  into  right-angled  triangles;  and  it 
was  still  more  odd  that  when  you  gazed  into  them  your 


198  GALLANTRY 


reach  of  vision  should  be  extended  until  you  saw  without 
effort  for  miles  and  miles. 

And  now  for  a  longish  while  these  eyes  returned  his 
scrutiny,  without  any  trace  of  embarrassment ;  and  what 
ever  may  have  been  the  thoughts  of  Mademoiselle  de 
Puysange,  she  gave  them  no  expression.  But  presently 
the  girl  glanced  down  toward  the  dead  man. 

"It  was  you  who  killed  him  ?"  she  said.     "You !" 

"I  had  that  privilege,"  John  Bulmer  admitted.  "And 
on  Thursday  afternoon,  God  willing,  I  shall  kill  the 
other." 

"You  are  kind,  Monsieur  Bulmer.  And  I  am  not  un 
grateful.  And  for  that  which  happened  yesterday  I  en 
treat  your  pardon." 

"I  can  pardon  you  for  calling  me  a  lackey,  mademoi 
selle,  only  upon  condition  that  you  permit  me  to  be  your 
lackey  for  the  remainder  of  your  jaunt.  Poictesme  ap 
pears  a  somewhat  too  romantic  country  for  unaccom 
panied  women  to  traverse  in  any  comfort." 

"My  thought  to  a  comma,"  the  Dominican  put  in, — 
"unaccompanied  ladies  do  not  ordinarily  drop  from  the 
forest  oaks  like  acorns.  I  said  as  much  to  Cazaio  a  half- 
hour  ago.  Look  you,  we  two  and  Michault, — who  for 
merly  incited  this  carcass  and,  from  what  I  know  of  him, 
is  by  this  time  occupying  hell's  hottest  gridiron, — were 
riding  peacefully  toward  Beauseant.  Then  this  lady  pops 
out  of  nowhere,  and  Cazaio  promptly  expresses  an  ex 
treme  admiration  for  her  person." 

"The  rest,"  John  Bulmer  said,  "I  can  imagine.  Oh, 
believe  me,  I  look  forward  to  next  Thursday !" 

"But  for  you,"  the  girl  said,  "I  would  now  be  the 
prisoner  of  that  devil  upon  the  Taunenfels!  Three  to 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  199 

one  you  fought, — and  you  conquered !  I  have  misjudged 
you,  Monsieur  Bulmer.  I  had  thought  you  only  an  indo 
lent  old  gentleman,  not  very  brave, — because — " 

''Because  otherwise  I  would  not  have  been  the  devil's 
lackey?"  said  John  Bulmer.  "Eh,  mademoiselle,  I  have 
been  inspecting  the  world  for  more  years  than  I  care  to 
confess ;  I  have  observed  the  king  upon  his  throne,  and 
the  caught  thief  upon  his  coffin  in  passage  for  the  gallows  : 
and  I  suspect  they  both  came  thither  through  taking  such 
employment  as  chance  offered.  Meanwhile,  we  waste 
daylight.  You  were  journeying — ?" 

"To  Perdigon,"  Claire  answered.  She  drew  nearer  to 
him  and  laid  one  hand  upon  his  arm.  "You  are  a  gallant 
man,  Monsieur  Bulmer.  Surely  you  understand.  Two 
weeks  ago  my  brother  affianced  me  to  the  Duke  of  Onus- 
kirk.  Ormskirk! — ah,  I  know  he  is  your  kinsman, — 
your  patron, — but  you  yourself  could  not  deny  that  the 
world  reeks  with  his  infamy.  And  my  own  brother, 
monsieur,  had  betrothed  me  to  this  perjurer,  to  that  lewd 
rake,  to  that  inhuman  devil  who  slaughters  defenceless 
prisoners,  men,  women,  and  children  alike.  Why,  I  had 
sooner  marry  the  first  beggar  or  the  ugliest  fiend  in  hell !" 
the  girl  wailed,  and  she  wrung  her  plump  little  hands  in 
desperation. 

"Good,  good !"  he  cried,  in  his  soul.  "It  appears  my 
eloquence  of  yesterday  was  greater  than  I  knew  of!" 

Claire  resumed:  "But  you  cannot  argue  with  Gas- 
ton — he  merely  shrugs.  So  I  decided  to  go  over  to 
Perdigon  and  marry  Gerard  des  Roches.  He  has  wanted 
to  marry  me  for  a  long  while,  but  Gaston  said  he  was 
too  poor.  And,  O  Monsieur  Bulmer,  Gerard  is  so  very, 
very  stupid! — but  he  was  the  only  person  available,  and 


200  GALLANTRY 


in  any  event,"  she  concluded,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation, 
"he  is  preferable  to  that  terrible  Ormskirk." 

John  Bulmer  gazed  on  her  considerately.  "  'Beautiful 
as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil/  "  was  his  thought. 
"You  have  an  eye,  Gaston !"  Aloud  John  Bulmer  said : 
"Your  remedy  against  your  brother's  tyranny,  mademoi 
selle,  is  quite  masterly,  though  perhaps  a  trifle  Draconic. 
Yet  if  on  his  return  he  find  you  already  married,  he  un 
doubtedly  cannot  hand  you  over  to  this  wicked  Ormskirk. 
Marry,  therefore,  by  all  means, — but  not  with  this  stupid 
Gerard." 

"With  whom,  then?"  she  wondered. 

"Fate  has  planned  it,"  he  laughed;  "here  are  you  and 
I,  and  yonder  is  the  clergyman  whom  Madam  Destiny 
has  thoughtfully  thrown  in  our  way." 

"Not  you,"  she  answered,  gravely.  "I  am  too  deeply 
in  your  debt,  Monsieur  Bulmer,  to  think  of  marrying 
you." 

"You  refuse,"  he  said,  "because  you  have  known  for 
some  days  past  that  I  loved  you.  Yet  it  is  really  this 
fact  which  gives  me  my  claim  to  become  your  husband. 
You  have  need  of  a  man  to  do  you  this  little  service.  I 
know  of  at  least  one  person  whose  happiness  it  would 
be  to  die  if  thereby  he  might  save  you  a  toothache.  This 
man  you  cannot  deny — you  have  not  the  right  to  deny 
this  man  his  single  opportunity  of  serving  you." 

"I  like  you  very  much,"  she  faltered;  and  then,  with 
disheartening  hastiness,  "Of  course,  I  like  you  very  much ; 
but  I  am1  not  in  love  with  you." 

He  shook  his  head  at  her.  "I  would  think  the  worse 
of  your  intellect  if  you  were.  I  adore  you.  Granted : 
but  that  constitutes  no  cut-throat  mortgage.  It  is  merely 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  201 

a  state  of  mind  which  I  have  somehow  blundered  into, 
and  with  which  you  have  no  concern.  So  I  ask  nothing  of 
you  save  to  marry  me.  You  may,  if  you  like,  look  upon 
me  as  insane;  it  is  the  view  toward  which  I  myself  incline. 
However,  mine  is  a  domesticated  mania  and  vexes  no 
one  save  myself ;  and  even  I  derive  no  little  amusement 
from  its  manifestations.  Eh,  Monsieur  Jourdain  may 
laugh  at  me  for  a  puling  lover !"  cried  John  Bulmer ;  "but, 
heavens!  if  only  he  could  see  the  unplumbed  depths  of 
ludicrousness  I  discover  in  my  own  soul !  The  mirth  of 
Atlas  could  not  do  it  justice." 

Claire  meditated  for  a  while,  her  eyes  inscrutable  and 
yet  not  unkindly.  "It  shall  be  as  you  will,"  she  said  at 
last.  "Yes,  certainly,  I  will  marry  you." 

"O  Mother  of  God !"  said  the  Dominican,  in  profound 
disgust;  "I  cannot  marry  two  maniacs."  But,  in  view 
of  John  Bulmer's  sword  and  pistol,  he  went  through  the 
ceremony  without  further  protest. 

And  something  embryonic  in  John  Bulmer  seemed  to 
come,  with  the  knave's  benediction,  into  flowerage.  He 
saw,  as  if  upon  a  sudden,  how  fine  she  was;  all  the 
gracious  and  friendly  youth  of  her:  and  he  deliberated, 
dizzily,  the  awe  of  her  spirited  and  alert  eyes;  why,  the 
woman  was  afraid  of  him!  That  sunny  and  vivid  glade 
had  become,  to  him,  an  island  about  which  past  happen 
ings  lapped  like  a  fretted  sea.  "Dear  me !"  he  reflected, 
"but  I  am  really  in  a  very  bad  way  indeed." 

Now  Mistress  Bulmer  gazed  shyly  at  her  husband. 
"We  will  go  back  to  Bellegarde,"  Claire  began,  "and  in 
form  Louis  de  Soyecourt  that  I  cannot  marry  the  Duke 
of  Ormskirk,  because  I  have  already  married  you,  Jean 
Bulmer,—" 


202  GALLANTRY 


"I  would  follow  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "though  hell 
yawned  between  us.  I  employ  the  particular  expression 
as  customary  in  all  these  cases  of  romantic  infatuation." 

"Yet  I,"  the  Friar  observed,  "would,  to  the  contrary, 
advise  removal  from  Poictesme  as  soon  as  may  be  pos 
sible.  For  I  warn  you  that  if  you  return  to  Bellegarde, 
Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  will  have  you  hanged." 

"Reverend  sir,"  John  Bulmer  replied,  "do  you  actually 
believe  this  consideration  would  be  to  me  of  any  mo 
ment?" 

The  Friar  inspected  his  countenance.  By  and  by  the 
Friar  said :  "I  emphatically  do  not.  And  to  think  that 
at  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintanceship  I  took  you  for  a 
sensible  person !"  Afterward  the  Friar  mounted  his  mule 
and  left  them. 

Then  silently  John  Bulmer  assisted  his  wife  to  the 
back  of  one  of  the  horses,  and  they  turned  eastward  into 
the  Forest  of  Acaire.  Mr.  Bulmer's  countenance  was 
politely  interested,  and  he  chatted  pleasantly  of  the  fore 
noon's  adventure.  Claire  told  him  something  of  her 
earlier  memories  of  Cazaio.  So  the  two  returned  to 
Bellegarde.  Then  Claire  led  the  way  toward  the  western 
fagade,  where  her  apartments  were,  and  they  came  to  a 
postern-door,  very  narrow  and  with  a  grating. 

"Help  me  down,"  the  girl  said.  Immediately  this  was 
done.  Claire  remained  quite  still.  Her  cheeks  were 
smouldering  and  her  left  hand  was  lying  inert  in  John 
Bulmer's  broader  palm. 

"Wait  here,"  she  said,  "and  let  me  go  in  first.  Some 
one  may  be  on  watch.  There  is  perhaps  danger — " 

"My  dear,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  perfectly  comprehend 
you  are  about  to  enter  that  postern,  and  close  it  in  my 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  203 

face,  and  afterward  hold  discourse  with  me  through  that 
little  wicket.  I  assent,  because  I  love  you  so  profoundly 
that  I  am  capable  not  merely  of  tearing  the  world  asunder 
like  paper  at  your  command,  but  even  of  leaving  you  if 
you  bid  me  do  so." 

"Your  suspicions,"  she  replied,  "are  prematurely 
marital.  I  am  trying  to  protect  you,  and  you  are  the  first 
to  accuse  me  of  underhand  dealing !  I  will  prove  to  you 
how  unjust  are  your  notions."  She  entered  the  postern, 
closed  and  bolted  it,  and  appeared  at  the  wicket. 

"The  Friar  was  intelligent,"  said  Claire  de  Puysange, 
"and  beyond  doubt  the  most  sensible  thing  you  can  do  is 
to  get  out  of  Poictesme  as  soon  as  possible.  You  have 
been  serviceable  to  me,  and  for  that  I  thank  you :  but 
the  master  of  Bellegarde  has  the  right  of  the  low,  the 
middle,  and  the  high  justice,  and  if  my  husband  show  his 
face  at  Bellegarde  he  will  infallibly  be  hanged.  If  you 
claim  me  in  England,  Ormskirk  will  have  you  knifed  in 
some  dark  alleyway,  just  as,  you  tell  me,  he  disposed  of 
Monsieur  Traquair  and  Captain  Dungelt.  I  am  sorry, 
because  I  like  you,  even  though  you  are  fat." 

"You  bid  me  leave  you?"  said  John  Buhner.  He  was 
comfortably  seated  upon  the  turf. 

"For  your  own  good,"  said  she,  "I  advise  you  to." 
And  she  closed  the  wicket. 

"The  acceptance  of  advice,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "is 
luckily  optional.  I  shall  therefore  go  down  into  the 
village,  purchase  a  lute,  have  supper,  and  I  shall  be  here 
at  sunrise  to  greet  you  with  an  aubade,  according  to  the 
ancient  custom  of  Poictesme." 

The  wicket  remained  closed. 


204  GALLANTRY 


VI 


"I  will  go  to  Marly,  inform  Gaston  of  the  entire 
matter,  and  then  my  wife  is  mine.  I  have  tricked  her 
neatly. 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  Gaston  can  give  me 
the  woman's  body  only.  I  shall  accordingly  buy  me  a 
lute." 


VII 


Achille  Cazaio  on  the  Taunenfels  did  not  sleep  that 
night.  .  .  . 

The  two  essays  *  dealing  with  the  man  have  scarcely 
touched  his  capabilities.  His  exploits  in  and  about  Paris 
and  his  Gascon  doings,  while  important  enough  in  the  out 
come,  are  but  the  gesticulations  of  a  puppet:  the  his 
torian's  real  concern  is  with  the  hands  that  manceuvered 
above  Cazaio;  and  whether  or  no  Achille  Cazaio  organ 
ized  the  riots  in  Toulouse  and  Guienne  and  Beam  is  a 
question  with  which,  at  this  late  day,  there  can  be  little 
profitable  commerce. 

One  recommends  this  Cazaio  rather  to  the  spinners  of 
romance:  with  his  morality — a  trifle  buccaneerish  on  oc 
casion — once  discreetly  palliated,  history  affords  few 
heroes  more  instantly  taking  to  the  fancy.  .  .  .  One  casts 
a  hankering  eye  toward  this  Cazaio's  rumored  parentage, 
his  hopeless  and  life-long  adoration  of  Claire  de  Puy- 
sange,  his  dealings  with  d'Argenson  and  King  Louis  le 

1  The  twenty-first  chapter  of  Du  Maillot's  Hommes  Illustres; 
and  the  fifth  of  d'Avranches's  Ancetres  de  la  Revolution.  Lowe 
has  an  excellent  digest  of  this  data. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  205 

Bien-Aime,  the  obscure  and  mischievous  imbroglios  in 
Spain,  and  finally  his  aggrandizement  and  his  flame-lit 
death,  as  du  Maillot,  say,  records  these  happenings :  and 
one  finds  therein  the  outline  of  an  impelling  hero,  and 
laments  that  our  traffic  must  be  with  a  stolid  and  less 
livelily  tinted  Bulmer.  And  with  a  sigh  one  passes  on 
toward  the  labor  prearranged.  .  .  . 

To-night  Cazaio's  desires  were  astir,  and  consciousness 
of  his  own  power  was  tempting  him.  He  had  never 
troubled  Poictesme  much :  the  Taunenfels  were  accessible 
on  that  side,  and  so  long  as  he  confined  his  depredations 
to  the  frontier,  the  Due  de  Puysange  merely  shrugged 
and  rendered  his  annual  tribute ;  it  was  not  a  great  sum, 
and  the  Duke  preferred  to  pay  it  rather  than  forsake  his 
international  squabbles  to  quash  a  purely  parochial  nui 
sance  like  a  bandit,  who  was,  too,  a  kinsman.  .  .  . 

Meanwhile  Cazaio  had  grown  stronger  than  de  Puy 
sange  knew.  It  was  a  time  of  disaffection:  the  more 
violent  here  and  there  were  beginning  to  assert  that  be 
fore  hanging  a  superfluous  peasant  or  two  de  Puysange 
ought  to  bore  himself  with  inquiries  concerning  the  ab 
stract  justice  of  the  action.  For  everywhere  the  irra 
tional  lower  classes  were  grumbling  about  the  very 
miseries  and  maltreatments  that  had  efficiently  disposed 
of  their  fathers  for  centuries :  they  seemed  not  to  respect 
tradition :  already  they  were  posting  placards  in  the  Paris 
boulevards, — "Shave  the  King  for  a  monk,  hang  the 
Pompadour,  and  break  Machault  on  the  wheel," — and  al 
ready  a  boy  of  twelve,  one  Joseph  Guillotin,  was  running 
about  the  streets  of  Saintes  yonder.  So  the  commoners 
flocked  to  Cazaio  in  the  Taunenfels  until,  little  by  little, 
he  had  gathered  an  army  about  him. 


206  GALLANTRY 


And  at  Bellegarde,  de  Soyecourt  had  only  a  handful  of 
men,  Cazaio  meditated  to-night.  And  the  woman  was 
there, — the  woman  whose  eyes  were  blue  and  incurious, 
whose  face  was  always  scornful. 

In  history  they  liken  Achille  Cazaio  to  Simon  de  Mont- 
fort,  and  the  Gracchi,  and  other  graspers  at  fruit  as  yet 
unripe;  or,  if  the  perfervid  word  of  d'Avranches  be  ac 
cepted,  you  may  regard  him  as  "le  Saint-Jean  de  la  Revo 
lution  glorieuse"  But  I  think  you  may  with  more  wis 
dom  regard  him  as  a  man  of  strong  passions,  any  one 
of  which,  for  the  time  being,  possessed  him  utterly. 

Now  he  struck  his  palm  upon  the  table. 

"I  have  never  seen  a  woman  one-half  so  beautiful, 
Dom  Michel.  I  am  more  than  ever  in  love  with  her." 

"In  that  event,"  the  Friar  considered,  "it  is,  of  course, 
unfortunate  she  should  have  a  brand-new  husband. 
Husbands  are  often  thought  much  of  when  they  are  a 
novelty." 

"You  bungled  matters,  you  fat,  mouse-hearted  rascal. 
You  could  quite  easily  have  killed  him." 

The  Dominican  spread  out  his  hands,  and  afterward 
reached  for  the  bottle.  "Milanese  armor!"  said  Dom 
Michel  Fregose.1 

"Yet  I  am  master  of  Poictesme,"  Cazaio  thundered. 
"I  have  ten  men  to  de  Soyecourt's  one.  Am  I,  then, 
lightly  to  be  thwarted  ?" 

"Undoubtedly  you  could  take  Bellegarde — and  the 
woman  along  with  the  castle, — if  you  decided  they  were 
worth  the  price  of  a  little  killing.  I  think  they  are  not 

1  The  same  ecclesiastic  who  more  lately  dubbed  himself,  with 
Marechal  de  Richelieu's  encouragement,  1'Abbe  de  Trans,  and 
was  discreditably  involved  in  the  forgeries  of  Madame  de  St. 
Vincent. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  207 

worth  it,  I  strongly  advise  you  to  have  up  a  wench  from 
the  village,  to  put  out  the  light,  and  exercise  your  imagi 
nation." 

Cazaio  shook  his  head.  "No,  Dom  Michel,  you 
churchmen  live  too  lewdly  to  understand  the  tyranny  of 
love." 

" — Besides,  there  is  that  trifling  matter  of  your  under 
standing  with  de  Puysange, — and,  besides,  de  Puysange 
will  be  here  in  two  days." 

Cazaio  snapped  his  fingers.  "He  will  arrive  after  the 
fair.'"  Cazaio  uncorked  the  ink-bottle  with  an  august 
gesture. 

"Write!"  said  Achille  Cazaio. 


VIII 


As  John  Bulmer  leisurely  ascended  from  the  village 
the  birds  were  waking.  Whether  day  were  at  hand  or 
no  was  a  matter  of  twittering  debate  overhead,  but  in 
the  west  the  stars  were  paling  one  by  one,  like  candles 
puffed  out  by  the  pretentious  little  wind  that  was  bustling 
about  the  turquoise  cupola  of  heaven;  and  eastward 
Bellegarde  showed  stark,  as  though  scissored  from  a 
painting,  against  a  sky  of  gray-and-rose.  Here  was  a 
world  of  faint  ambiguity.  Here  was  the  exquisite  ten 
sion  of  dawn,  curiously  a-chime  with  John  Bulmer's 
mood,  for  just  now  he  found  the  universe  too  beautiful 
to  put  any  actual  faith  in  its  existence.  He  had  strayed 
into  Faery  somehow — into  Atlantis,  or  Avalon,  or  "a 
wood  near  Athens," — into  a  land  of  opalescence  and 
vapor  and  delicate  color,  that  would  vanish,  bubble-like, 
at  the  discreet  tap  of  Pawsey  fetching  in  his  shaving- 


208  GALLANTRY 


water ;  meantime  John  Bulmer's  memory  snatched  at  each 
loveliness,  jealously,  as  a  pug  snatches  bits  of  sugar. 

Beneath  her  window  he  paused  and  shifted  his  lute 
before  him.  Then  he  began  to  sing,  exultant  in  the 
unreality  of  everything  and  of  himself  in  particular. 

Sang  John  Bulmer. 

"Speed  forth,  my  song,  the  sun's  ambassador, 
Lest  in  the  east  night  prove  the  conqueror, 
The  day  be  slain,  and  darkness  triumph, — for 
The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain. 

"And  now  the  sunlight  and  the  night  contest 
A  doubtful  battle,  and  day  bides  at  best 
Doubtful,  until  she  waken.    Tis  attest 
The  sun  is  single. 

"But  her  eyes  are  twain, — 
And  should  the  light  of  all  the  world  delay, 
And  darkness  prove  victorious?     Is  it  day 
Now  that  the  sun  alone  is  risen? 

"Nay, 

The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain, — 
Twain  firmaments  that  mock  with  heavenlier  hue 
The  heavens'  less  lordly  and  less  gracious  blue, 
And  lit  with  sunlier  sunlight  through  and  through. 

"The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain, 
And  of  fair  things  this  side  of  Paradise 
Fairest,  of  goodly  things  most  goodly." 

He  paused  here  and  smote  a  resonant  and  louder  chord. 
His  voice  ascended  in  dulcet  supplication. 

"Rise, 

And  succor  the  benighted  world  that  cries, 
The  sun  is  single,  but  her  eyes  are  twain!" 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  209 

"Eh — ?  So  it  is  you,  is  it?"  Claire  was  peeping  dis 
dainfully  from  the  window.  Her  throat  was  bare,  and 
her  dusky  hair  was  a  shade  dishevelled,  and  in  her  medi 
tative  eyes  he  caught  the  flicker  of  her  tardiest  dream  just 
as  it  vanished. 

"It  is  I,"  John  Bulmer  confessed — "come  to  awaken 
you  according  to  the  ancient  custom  of  Poictesme." 

"I  would  much  rather  have  had  my  sleep  out,"  said  she, 
resentfully.  "In  perfect  frankness,  I  find  you  and  your 
ancient  customs  a  nuisance." 

"You  lack  romance,  my  wife." 

"Oh — ?"  She  was  a  person  of  many  cryptic  exclama 
tions,  this  bride  of  his.  Presently  she  said :  "Indeed, 
Monsieur  Bulmer,  I  entreat  you  to  leave  Poictesme.  I 
have  informed  Louis  of  everything,  and  he  is  rather 
furious." 

John  Bulmer  said,  "Do  you  comprehend  why  I  have 
not  already  played  the  emigrant  ?" 

After  a  little  pause,  she  answered,  "Yes." 

"And  for  the  same  reason  I  can  never  leave  you  so 
long  as  this  gross  body  is  at  my  disposal.  You  are  about 
to  tell  me  that  if  I  remain  here  I  shall  probably  be  hanged 
on  account  of  what  happened  yesterday.  There  are 
grounds  for  my  considering  this  outcome  unlikely,  but  if 
I  knew  it  to  be  inevitable — if  I  had  but  one  hour's  start 
of  Jack  Ketch, — I  swear  to  you  I  would  not  budge." 

"I  am  heartily  sorry,"  she  replied,  "since  if  I  had  known 
you  really  cared  for  me — so  much — I  would  never  have 
married  you.  Oh,  it  is  impossible!"  the  girl  laughed, 
with  a  trace  of  worriment.  "You  had  not  laid  eyes  on  me 
until  a  week  ago  yesterday !" 

"My  dear,"  John   Bulmer   answered,   "I  am  perhaps 


210  GALLANTRY 


inadequately  acquainted  with  the  etiquette  of  such  mat 
ters,  but  I  make  bold  to  question  if  love  is  exclusively 
regulated  by  clock-ticks.  Observe!"  he  said,  with  a  sort 
of  fury;  "there  is  a  mocking  demon  in  me  who  twists 
my  tongue  into  a  jest  even  when  I  am  most  serious.  I 
love  you;  and  I  dare  not  tell  you  so  without  a  grin. 
Then  when  you  laugh  at  me  I,  too,  can  laugh,  and  the 
whole  transaction  can  be  regarded  as  a  parody.  Oh,  I  am 
indeed  a  coward !" 

"You  are  nothing  of  the  sort !  You  proved  that  yester 
day." 

"Yesterday  I  shot  an  unsuspecting  man,  and  afterward 
fenced  with  another — in  a  shirt  of  Milanese  armor !  Yes, 
I  was  astoundingly  heroic  yesterday,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  all  the  while  I  knew  myself  to  be  as  safe  as  though 
I  were  snug  at  home  snoring  under  an  eider-down  quilt. 
Yet,  to  do  me  justice,  I  am  a  shade  less  afraid  of  physical 
danger  than  of  ridicule." 

She  gave  him  a  womanly  answer.  "You  are  not  ridic 
ulous,  and  to  wear  armor  was  very  sensible  of  you." 

"To  the  contrary,  I  am  extremely  ridiculous.  For 
observe :  I  am  an  elderly  man,  quite  old  enough  to  be 
your  father;  I  am  fat —  No,  that  is  kind  of  you,  but  I 
am  not  of  pleasing  portliness,  I  am  just  unpardonably 
fat ;  and,  I  believe,  I  am  not  possessed  of  any  fatal  beauty 
of  feature  such  as  would  by  ordinary  impel  young  women 
to  pursue  me  with  unsolicited  affection  :  and  being  all  this, 
I  presume  to  love  you.  To  me,  at  least,  that  appears 
ridiculous." 

"Ah,  do  not  laugh !"  she  said.  "Do  not  laugh,  Mon 
sieur  Buhner!" 

But  John  Buhner  persisted  in  that  curious  laughter. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  211 

"Because,"  he  presently  stated,  "the  whole  affair  is  so 
very  diverting." 

"Believe  me,"  Claire  began,  "I  am  sorry  that  you  care 
— so  much.  I — do  not  understand.  I  am  sorry, — I  am 
not  sorry,"  the  girl  said,  in  a  new  tone,  and  you  saw  her 
transfigured;  "I  am  glad!  Do  you  comprehend? — I  am 
glad !"  And  then  she  swiftly  closed  the  window. 

John  Bulmer  observed.  "I  am  perhaps  subject  to  hallu 
cinations,  for  otherwise  the  fact  had  been  previously  noted 
by  geographers  that  heaven  is  immediately  adjacent  to 
Poictesme." 

IX 

Presently  the  old  flippancy  came  back  to  him,  since 
an  ancient  custom  is  not  lightly  broken ;  and  John  Bulmer 
smiled  sleepily  and  shook  his  head.  "Here  am  I  on  my 
honeymoon,  with  my  wife  locked  up  in  the  chateau,  and 
with  me  locked  out  of  it.  My  position  savors  too  much 
of  George  Dandin's  to  be  quite  acceptable.  Let  us  set 
about  rectifying  matters." 

He  came  to  the  great  gate  of  the  castle  and  found 
two  sentries  there.  He  thought  this  odd,  but  they  recog 
nized  him  as  de  Soyecourt's  guest,  and  after  a  whispered 
consultation  admitted  him.  In  the  courtyard  a  lackey 
took  charge  of  Monsieur  Bulmer,  and  he  was  conducted 
into  the  presence  of  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt.  "What 
the  devil !"  thought  John  Bulmer,  "is  Bellegarde  in  a  state 
of  siege?" 

The  'little  Marquis  sat  beside  the  Duchesse  de  Puy- 
sange,  to  the  rear  of  a  long  table  with  a  crimson  cover. 
Their  attitudes  smacked  vaguely  of  the  judicial,  and  be 
fore  them  stood,  guarded  by  four  attendants,  a  ragged 


212  GALLANTRY 


and  dissolute  looking  fellow  whom  the  Marquis  was  lan 
guidly  considering. 

"My  dear  man,"  de  Soyecourt  was  saying  as  John 
Bulmer  came  into  the  room,  "when  you  brought  this 
extraordinary  epistle  to  Bellegarde,  you  must  have  been 
perfectly  aware  that  thereby  you  were  forfeiting  your 
life.  Accordingly,  I  am  compelled  to  deny  your  absurd 
claims  to  the  immunity  of  a  herald,  just  as  I  would  de 
cline  to  receive  a  herald  from  the  cockroaches." 

"That  is  cowardly,"  the  man  said.  "I  come  as  the 
representative  of  an  honorable  enemy  who  desires  to 
warn  you  before  he  strikes." 

"You  come  as  the  representative  of  vermin,"  de  Soye 
court  retorted,  "and  as  such  I  receive  you.  You  will 
therefore,  permit  me  to  wish  you  a  pleasant  journey  into 
eternity.  Why,  hola,  madame!  here  is  that  vagabond 
guest  of  ours  returned  to  observation!"  The  Marquis 
rose  and  stepped  forward,  all  abeam.  "Mr.  Bulmer,  I 
can  assure  you  that  I  was  never  more  delighted  to  see 
anyone  in  my  entire  life." 

"Pardon,  monseigneur,"  one  of  the  attendants  here 
put  in, — "but  what  shall  we  do  with  this  Achon?" 

The  Marquis  slightly  turned  his  head,  his  hand  still 
grasping  John  Bulmer's.  "Why,  hang  him,  of  course," 
he  said.  "Did  I  forget  to  tell  you  ?  But  yes,  take  him 
out,  and  have  him  confessed  by  Frere  Joseph,  and  hang 
him  at  once."  The  four  men  removed  their  prisoner. 

"You  find  us  in  the  act  of  dispensing  justice,"  the 
Marquis  continued,  "yet  at  Bellegarde  we  temper  it  with 
mercy,  so  that  I  shall  ask  no  indiscreet  questions  concern 
ing  your  absence  of  last  night." 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  213 

"But  I,  monsieur,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I,  too,  have 
come  to  demand  justice." 

"Tete-bleu,  Mr.  Bulmer!  and  what  can  I  have  the 
joy  of  doing  for  you  in  that  respect?" 

"You  can  restore  to  me  my  wife." 

And  now  de  Soyecourt  cast  a  smile  toward  the 
Duchess,  who  appeared  troubled.  "Would  you  not  have 
known  this  was  an  Englishman,"  he  queried,  "by  the 
avowed  desire  for  the  society  of  his  own  wife?  They 
are  a  mad  race.  And  indeed,  Mr.  Bulmer,  I  would  very 
gladly  restore  to  you  this  hitherto  unheard-of  spouse  if 
but  I  were  blest  with  her  acquaintance.  As  it  is — "  He 
waved  his  hand. 

"I  married  her  only  yesterday,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "and 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  is  now  within  Belle- 
garde." 

He  saw  the  eyes  of  de  Soyecourt  slowly  narrow. 
"Jacques,"  said  the  Marquis,  "fetch  me  the  pistol  within 
that  cabinet."  The  Marquis  resumed  his  seat  to  the  rear 
of  the  table,  the  weapon  lying  before  him.  "You  may  go 
now,  Jacques ;  this  gentleman  and  I  are  about  to  hold  a 
little  private  conversation."  Then,  when  the  door  had 
closed  upon  the  lackey,  de  Soyecourt  said,  "Pray  draw  up 
a  chair  within  just  ten  feet  of  this  table,  monsieur,  and 
oblige  me  with  your  wife's  maiden' name." 

"She  was  formerly  known,"  John  Bulmer  answered, 
"as  Mademoiselle  Claire  de  Puysange." 

The  Duchess  spoke  for  the  first  time.  "Oh,  the  poor 
man !  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  he  is  evidently  insane." 

"I  do  not  know  about  that,"  the  Marquis  said,  fret 
fully,  "but  in  any  event  I  hope  that  no  more  people  will 


214  GALLANTRY 


come  to  Bellegarde  upon  missions  which  compel  me  to 
have  them  hanged.  First  there  was  this  Achon,  and  now 
you,  Mr.  Buhner,  come  to  annoy  me. — Listen,  monsieur," 
he  went  on,  presently :  "last  evening  Mademoiselle  de 
Puysange  announced  to  the  Duchess  and  me  that  her  im 
pending  match  with  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  must  neces 
sarily  be  broken  off,  as  she  was  already  married.  She 
had,  she  stated,  encountered  you  and  a  clergyman  yonder 
the  forest,  where,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  you  two 
had  espoused  each  other ;  and  was  quite  unable  to  inform 
us  what  had  become  of  you  after  the  ceremony.  You 
can  conceive  that,  as  a  sensible  man,  I  did  not  credit  a 
word  of  her  story.  But  now,  as  I  understand  it,  you 
corroborate  this  moonstruck  narrative  ?" 

John  Bulmer  bowed  his  head.  "I  have  that  honor, 
monsieur." 

De  Soyecourt  sounded  the  gong  beside  him.  "In  that 
event,  it  is  uncommonly  convenient  to  have  you  in  hand. 
Your  return  to  Bellegarde  I  regard  as  opportune,  even 
though  I  am  compelled  to  attribute  it  to  insanity;  per 
sonally,  I  disapprove  of  this  match  with  Milor  Ormskirk, 
but  as  Gaston  is  bent  upon  it,  you  will  understand  that 
in  reason  my  only  course  is  to  make  Claire  a  widow  as 
soon  as  may  be  possible." 

"It  is  intended,  then,"  John  Bulmer  queried,  "that  1 
am  to  follow  Achon?" 

"I  can  but  trust,"  said  the  Marquis,  politely,  "that  your 
course  of  life  has  qualified  you  for  a  superior  flight,  since 
Achon's  departing,  -I  apprehend,  is  not  unakin  to  a 
descent." 

"No !"   the   Duchess   cried,    suddenly ;    "Monsieur    de 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  215 

Soyecourt,  can  you  not  see  the  man  is  out  of  his  senses? 
Let  Claire  be  sent  for.  There  is  some  mistake/' 

De  Soyecourt  shrugged.  "Yen  know  that  I  can  refuse 
you  nothing.  Jacques,"  he  called,  to  the  appearing 
lackey,  "request  Mademoiselle  de  Puysange  to  honor  us, 
if  it  be  convenient,  with  her  presence.  Nay,  I  pray  you, 
do  not  rise,  Mr.  Bulmer;  I  am  of  a  nervous  disposition, 
startled  by  the  least  movement,  and  my  finger,  as  you  may 
note,  is  immediately  upon  the* trigger." 

So  they  sat  thus,  John  Bulmer  beginning  to  feel  rather 
foolish  as  time  wore  on,  though  actually  it  was  not  a  long 
while  before  Claire  had  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  had 
paused  there.  You  saw  a  great  wave  of  color  flood  her 
countenance,  then  swiftly  ebb.  John  Bulmer  observed, 
with  a  thrill,  that  she  made  no  sound,  but  simply  waited, 
composed  and  alert,  to  find  out  how  much  de  Soyecourt 
knew  before  she  spoke. 

The  little  Marquis  said,  "Claire,  this  gentleman  informs 
us  that  you  married  him  yesterday." 

Tranquilly  she  inspected  her  claimant.  "I  did  not  see 
Monsieur  Bulmer  at  all  yesterday,  so  far  as  I  remember. 
Why,  surely,  Louis,  you  did  not  take  my  nonsense  of  last 
night  in  earnest?"  she  demanded,  and  gave  a  mellow 
ripple  of  laughter.  "Yes,  you  actually  believed  it;  you 
actually  believed  that  I  walked  into  the  forest  and  mar 
ried  the  first  man  I  met  there,  and  that  this  is  he.  As 
it  happens  I  did  not;  so  please  let  Monsieur  Bulmer  go 
at  once,  and  put  away  that  absurd  pistol — at  once,  Louis, 
do  you  hear  ?" 

The  Duchess  shook  her  head.  "She  is  lying,  Monsieur 
de  Soyecourt,  and  undoubtedly  this  is  the  man." 


216  GALLANTRY 


John  Bulmer  went  to  the  girl  and  took  her  hand.  "You 
are  trying  to  save  me,  I  know.  But  need  I  warn  you  that 
the  reward  of  Ananias  was  never  a  synonym  for  felicity  ?" 

"Jean  Bulmer!  Jean  Buhner!"  the  girl  asked,  and 
her  voice  was  tender ;  "why  did  you  return  to  Bellegarde, 
Jean- Bulmer?" 

"I  came,"  he  answered,  "for  the  absurd  reason  that  I 
cannot  live  without  you." 

They  stood  thus  for  a  while,  both  her  hands  clasped  in 
his.  "I  believe  you,"  she  said  at  last,  "even  though  I 
do  not  understand  at  all,  Jean  Bulmer."  And  then  she 
wheeled  upon  the  Marquis.  "Yes,  yes!"  Claire  said ;  "the 
man  is  my  husband.  And  I  will  not  have  him  harmed. 
Do  you  comprehend? — you  shall  not  touch  him,  because 
you  are  not  fit  to  touch  him,  Louis,  and  also  because  I 
do  not  wish  it." 

De  Soyecourt  looked  toward  the  Duchess  as  if  for  ad 
vice.  "It  is  a  nuisance,  but  evidently  she  cannot  marry 
Milor  Ormskirk  so  long  as  Mr.  Bulmer  is  alive.  I  sup 
pose  it  would  be  better  to  hang  him  out-of-hand  ?" 

"Monsieur  de  Puysange  would  prefer  it,  I  imagine," 
said  the  Duchess ;  "nevertheless,  it  appears  a  great  pity." 

"In  nature,"  the  Marquis  assented,  "we  deplore  the  loss 
of  Mr.  Bulmer's  company.  Yet  as  matters  stand — " 

"But  they  are  in  love  with  each  other,"  the  Duchess 
pointed  out,  with  a  sorry  little  laugh.  "Can  you  not  see 
that,  my  friend  ?" 

"Hein?"  said  the  Marquis;  "why,  then,  it  is  doubly 
important  that  Mr.  Bulmer  be  hanged  as  soon  as  pos 
sible."  He  reached  for  the  gong,  but  Claire  had  begun  to 
speak. 

"I  am  not  at  all  in  love  with  him !     You  are  of  a  pro- 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  217 

found  imbecility,  Helene.  I  think  he  is  a  detestable  per 
son,  because  he  always  looks  at  you  as  if  he  saw  some 
thing  extremely  ridiculous,  but  was  too  polite  to  notice  it. 
He  is  invariably  making  me  suspect  I  have  a  smut  on  my 
nose.  But  in  spite  of  that,  I  consider  him  a  very  pleasant 
old  gentleman,  and  I  will  not  have  him  hanged!'*  With 
which  ultimatum  she  stamped  her  foot. 

"Yes,  madame,"  said  the  Marquis,  critically;  "after  all, 
she  is  in  love  with  him.  That  is  unfortunate,  is  it  not,  for 
Milor  Ormskirk, — and  even  for  Achille  Cazaio,"  he 
added,  with  a  shrug. 

"I  fail  to  see,"  a  dignified  young  lady  stated,  "what 
Cazaio,  at  least,  has  to  do  with  your  galimatias." 

"Simply  that  I  received  this  morning  a  letter  demand 
ing  you  be  surrendered  to  Cazaio,"  de  Soyecourt  an 
swered  as  he  sounded  the  gong.  "Otherwise,  our  amiable 
friend  of  the  Taunenfels  announces  he  will  attack  Belle- 
garde.  I,  of  course,  hanged  his  herald  and  despatched 
messengers  to  Gaston,  whom  I  look  for  to-morrow.  If 
Gaston  indeed  arrive  to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Bulmer,  I 
shall  relinquish  you  to  him;  in  other  circumstances  will 
be  laid  upon  me  the  deplorable  necessity  of  summoning  a 
Protestant  minister  from  Manneville,  and,  after  your 
spiritual  affairs  are  put  in  order,  of  hanging  you — sup 
pose  we  say  at  noon?" 

"The  hour  suits  me,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "as  well  as 
another.  But  no  better.  And  I  warn  you  it  will  not  suit 
the  Duke  of  Ormskirk,  either,  whose  relative — whose 
very  near  relative — "  He  posed  for  the  astounding  rev 
elation. 

But  little  de  Soyecourt  had  drawn  closer  to  him.  "Mr. 
Bulmer,  I  have  somehow  omitted  to  mention  that  two 


218  GALLANTRY 


years  ago  I  was  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  when  the  treaty  was 
in  progress,  and  there  saw  your  great  kinsman.  I  cut  no 
particular  figure  at  the  convocation,  and  it  is  unlikely  he 
recalls  my  features ;  but  I  remember  his  quite  clearly." 

"Indeed  ?"  said  John  Bulmer,  courteously ;  "it  appears, 
then,  that  monsieur  is  a  physiognomist  ?" 

"You  flatter  me,"  the  Marquis  returned.  "My  skill  in 
that  science  enabled  me  to  deduce  only  the  veriest  truisms 
— such  as  that  the  man  who  for  fifteen  years  had  beaten 
France,  had  hoodwinked  France,  would  in  France  be  not 
oversafe  could  we  conceive  him  fool  enough  to  hazard  a 
trip  into  this  country." 

"Especially  alone?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"Especially,"  the  Marquis  assented,  "if  he  came  alone. 
But,  ma  f  oi !  I  am  discourteous.  You  were  about  to 
say—?" 

"That  a  comic  subject  declines  to  be  set  forth  in  tragic 
verse,"  John  Bulmer  answered,  "and  afterward  to  in 
quire  the  way  to  my  dungeon." 


But  John  Bulmer  escaped  a  dungeon  after  all;  for  at 
parting  de  Soyecourt  graciously  offered  to  accept  Mr. 
Bulmer's  parole,  which  he  gave  willingly  enough,  and 
thereby  obtained  the  liberty  of  a  tiny  enclosed  garden, 
whence  a  stairway  led  to  his  new  apartment  on  the  second 
floor  of  what  had  been  known  as  the  Constable's  Tower, 
since  du  Guesclin  held  it  for  six  weeks  against  Sir  Robert 
Knollys.  This  was  a  part  of  the  ancient  fortress  in 
which,  they  say,  Poictesme's  most  famous  hero,  Dom 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  219 

Manuel,  dwelt  and  performed  such  wonders,  a  long  while 
before  Bellegarde  was  remodeled  by  Duke  Florian. 

The  garden,  gravel-pathed,  was  a  trim  place,  all  green 
and  white.  It  contained  four  poplars,  and  in  the  center 
was  a  fountain,  where  three  Nereids  contended  with  a 
brawny  Triton  for  the  possession  of  a  turtle  whose  nos 
trils  spurted  water.  A  circle  of  attendant  turtles,  half- 
submerged,  shot  inferior  jets  from  their  gaping  mouths. 
It  was  an  odd,  and  not  unhandsome  piece,1  and  John 
Bulmer  inspected  it  with  appreciation,  and  then  the  gar 
den,  and  having  found  all  things  satisfactory,  sat  down 
and  chuckled  sleepily  and  waited. 

"De  Soyecourt  has  been  aware  of  my  identity  through 
out  the  entire  week!  Faith,  then,  I  am  a  greater  fool 
than  even  I  suspected,  since  this  fop  of  the  boulevards 
has  been  able  to  trick  me  so  long.  He  has  some  card  up 
his  sleeve,  too,  has  our  good  Marquis —  Eh,  well !  Gas- 
ton  comes  to-morrow,  and  thenceforward  all  is  plain  sail 
ing.  Meantime  I  conjecture  that  the  poor  captive  will 
presently  have  visitors." 

He  had  dinner  first,  though,  and  at  this  meal  gave  an 
excellent  account  of  himself.  Shortly  afterward,  as  he 
sat  over  his  coffee,  little  de  Soyecourt  unlocked  the  high 
and  narrow  gate  which  constituted  the  one  entrance  to 
the  garden,  and  sauntered  forward,  dapper  and  smiling. 

"I  entreat  your  pardon,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  de  Soye 
court  began,  "that  I  have  not  visited  you  sooner.  But 
in  unsettled  times,  you  comprehend,  the  master  of  a  be 
leaguered  fortress  is. kept  busy.  Cazaio,  I  now  learn, 

1  Designed  by  Simon  Guillain.  This  fountain  is  still  to  be  seen 
at  Bellegarde,  though  the  exuberancy  of  Revolutionary  patriotism 
has  bereft  the  Triton  of  his  head  and  of  the  lifted  arm. 


220  GALLANTRY 


means  to  attack  to-morrow,  and  I  have  been  fortifying 
against  him.  However,  I  attach  no  particular  impor 
tance  to  the  man's  threats,  as  I  have  despatched  three 
couriers  to  Gaston,  one  of  whom  must  in  reason  get  to 
him ;  and  in  that  event  Gaston  should  arrive  early  in  the 
afternoon,  accompanied  by  the  dragoons  of  Entrechat. 
And  subsequently — eh  bien!  if  Cazaio  has  stirred  up  a 
hornets'-nest  he  has  only  himself  to  thank  for  it."  The 
Marquis  snapped  his  fingers  and  hummed  a  merry  air, 
being  to  all  appearance  in  excellent  spirits. 

"That  is  well/'  said  John  Bulmer,— "for,  believe  me, 
I  shall  be  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  Gaston  once  more." 

"Decidedly,"  said  the  Marquis,  sniffing,  "they  give  my 
prisoners  much  better  coffee  than  they  deign  to  afford  me. 
I  shall  make  bold  to*  ask  you  for  a  cup  of  it,  while  we 
converse  sensibly."  He  sat  down  opposite  John  Bujmer. 
"Oh,  about  Gaston,"  said  the  Marquis,  as  he  added  the 
sugar — "it  is  deplorable  that  you  will  not  see  Gaston 
again,  at  least,  not  in  this  naughty  world  of  ours." 

"I  am  the  more  grieved,"  said  John  Bulmer,  gravely, 
"for  I  love  the  man." 

"It  is  necessary,  you  conceive,  that  I  hang  you,  at 
latest,  before  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow,  since  Gaston  is  a 
little  too  fond  of  you  to  fall  in  with  my  plans.  His  pre 
mature  arrival  would  in  effect  admit  the  bull  of  equity 
into  the  china-shop  of  my  intentions.  And  day-dreams 
are  fragile  stuff,  Monsieur  d'Ormskirk!  Indeed,  I  am 
giving  you  this  so  brief  reprieve  only  because  I  am  un 
willing  to  have  upon  my  conscience  the  reproach  of  hang 
ing  without  due  preparation  a  man  whom  of  all  politicians 
in  the  universe  I  most  unfeignedly  like  and  respect.  The 
Protestant  minister  has  been  sent  for,  and  will,  I  sincerely 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  221 

trust,  be  here  at  dawn.  Otherwise — really,  I  am  deso 
lated,  Monsieur  le  Due,  but  you  surely  comprehend  that 
I  cannot  wait  upon  his  leisure." 

John  Bulmer  cracked  a  filbert.  "So  I  am  to  die  to 
morrow?  I  do  not  presume  to  dictate,  monsieur,  but  I 
would  appreciate  some  explanation  of  your  motive/7 

"Which  I  freely  render,"  the  Marquis  replied.  "When 
I  recognized  you  a  week  ago — as  I  did  at  first  glance, — I 
was  astounded.  That  you,  the  man  in  all  the  world  most 
cordially  hated  by  Frenchmen,  should  venture  into  France 
quite  unattended  was  a  conception  to  confound  belief. 
Still,  here  you  were,  and  I  comprehended  that  such  an  op 
portunity  would  not  rap  twice  upon  the  door.  So  I  des 
patched  a  letter  post-haste  to  Madame  de  Pompadour  at 
Marly—" 

"I  begin  to  comprehend,"  John  Bulmer  said.  "Old 
Tournehem's  daughter1  hates  me  as  she  hates  no  other 
man  alive.  Frankly,  monsieur,  the  little  strumpet  has 
some  cause  to, — may  I  trouble  you  for  the  nut-crackers  ? 
a  thousand  thanks, — since  I  have  outwitted  her  more 
than  once,  both  in  diplomacy  and  on  the  battle-field. 
With  me  out  of  the  way,  I  comprehend  that  France  might 
attempt  to  renew  the  war,  and  our  late  treaty  would  be  so 
much  wasted  paper.  Yes,  I  comprehend  that  the  woman 
would  give  a  deal  for  me —  But  what  the  devil !  France 
has  no  allies.  She  dare  not  provoke  England  just  at 
present ;  she  has  no  allies,  monsieur,  for  I  can  assure  you 
that  Prussia  is  out  of  the  game.  Then  what  is  the  woman 
driving  at?" 

1  Mr.  Bulmer  here  refers  to  a  venerable  scandal.  The  Pompa 
dour  was,  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  at  least,  the  daughter  of  Frangois 
Poisson. 


222  GALLANTRY 


"Far  be  it  from  me,"  said  the  Marquis,  with  becoming 
modesty,  "to  meddle  with  affairs  of  state.  Nevertheless, 
madame  is  willing  to  purchase  you — at  any  price." 

John  Buhner  slapped  his  thigh.  "Kaunitz!  behold 
the  key.  Eh,  eh,  I  have  it  now  ;  not  long  ago  the  Empress 
despatched  a  special  ambassador  to  Versailles, — one  An 
ton  Wenzel  Kaunitz,  a  man  I  never  heard  of.  Why,  this 
Moravian  count  is  a  genius  of  the  first  water.  He  will 
combine  France  and  Austria,  implacable  enemies  since 
the  Great  Cardinal's  time.  Ah,  I  have  it  now,  monsieur, 
— Frederick  of  Prussia  has  published  verses  against  the 
Pompadour  which  she  can  never  pardon — eh,  against  the 
Czaritza,  too !  Why,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  be  a  poet !  now 
Russia  will  join  the  league.  And  Sweden,  of  course,  be 
cause  she  wants  Pomerania,  which  King  Frederick  claims. 
Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  I  protest  it  will  be  one  of  the 
prettiest  messes  ever  stirred  up  in  history !  And  to  think 
that  I  am1  to  miss  it  all !" 

"I  regret,"  de  Soyecourt  said,  "to  deny  you  the  pleasure 
of  participation.  In  sober  verity  I  regret  it.  But  un 
luckily,  Monsieur  d'Ormskirk,  your  dissolution  is  the  sole 
security  of  my  happiness;  and  in  effect" — he  shrugged, — 
"you  comprehend  my  unfortunate  position." 

"One  of  the  prettiest  messes  ever  stirred  up  in  all  his 
tory!"  John  Buhner  lamented;  "and  I  to  miss  it!  The 
policy  of  centuries  shrugged  aside,  and  the  map  of  the 
world  made  over  as  lightly  as  if  it  were  one  of  last  year's 
gowns!  Decidedly  I  shall  never  again  cast  reflections 
upon  the  woman  in  politics,  for  this  is  superb.  WThy,  this 
coup  is  worthy  of  me !  And  what  is  Petticoat  the  Second 
to  give  you,  pray,  for  making  all  this  possible?" 

"She  will  give  me,"  the  Marquis  retorted,  "according 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  223 

to  advices  received  from  her  yesterday,  a  lettre-de-cachet 
for  Gaston  de  Puysange.  Gaston  is  a  man  of  ability,  but 
he  is  also  a  man  of  unbridled  tongue,  He  has  expressed 
his  opinion  concerning  the  Pompadour,  to  cite  an  instance, 
as  freely  as  ever  did  the  Comte  de  Matirepas.  You  know 
what  happened  to  de  Maurepas.  Ah,  yes,  Gaston  is  un 
doubtedly  a  peer  of  France,  but  the  Pompadour  is  queen 
of  that  kingdom.  And  in  consequence — on  the  day  that 
Madame  de  Pompadour  learns  of  your  death, — Gaston 
goes  to  the  Bastile." 

"Naturally,"  John  Bulmer  assented,  "since  imprison 
ment  in  the  Bastile  is  by  ordinary  the  reward  of  common- 
sense  when  manifested  by  a  Frenchman.  What  the  devil, 
monsieur !  The  Duchess'  uncle,  Marechal  de  Richelieu, 
has  been  there  four  times,  and  Gaston  himself,  if  I  am 
not  mistaken,  has  sojourned  there  twice.  And  neither  is 
one  whit  the  worse  for  it." 

The  Marquis  sipped  his  coffee.  "The  Bastile  is  not  a 
very  healthy  place.  Besides,  I  have  a  friend  there, — a 
gaoler.  He  was  formerly  a  chemist." 

John  Bulmer  elevated  the  right  eyebrow.     "Poison?" 

"Dieu  m'en  garde!"  The  Marquis  was  appalled. 
"Nay,  monsieur,  merely  an  unforeseeable  attack  of  heart- 
disease." 

"Ah!  ah!"  said  John  Bulmer,  very  slowly.  He  pres 
ently  resumed:  "Afterward  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange 
will  be  a  widow.  And  already  she  is  fond  of  you;  but 
unfortunately  the  Duchess — with  every  possible  defer 
ence, — is  a  trifle  prudish.  I  see  it  all  now,  quite  plainly ; 
and  out  of  pure  friendliness,  I  warn  you  that  in  my 
opinion  the  Duchess  is  hopelessly  in  love  with  her  hus 
band." 


224  GALLANTRY 


"We  should  suspect  no  well  bred  lady  of  provincial 
ism,"  returned  the  Marquis,  "and  so  I  shall  take  my 
chance.  Believe  me,  Monsieur  le  Due,  I  profoundly  re 
gret  that  you  and  Gaston  must  be  sacrificed  in  order  to 
afford  me  this  same  chance." 

But  John  Buhner  was  chuckling.  "My  faith!'  he  said, 
and  softly  chafed  his  hands  together,  "how  sincerely  you 
will  be  horrified  when  your  impetuous  error  is  discovered 
— just  too  late !  You  were  merely  endeavoring  to  serve 
your  beloved  Gaston  and  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  when 
you  hanged  the  rascal  who  had  impudently  stolen  the 
woman  intended  to  cement  their  friendship !  The  Duke 
fell  a  victim  to  his  own  folly,  and  you  acted  precipitately, 
perhaps,  but  out  of  pure  zeal.  You  will  probably  weep. 
Meanwhile  your  lettre-de-cachet  is  on  the  road,  and  pres 
ently  Gaston,  too,  is  trapped  and  murdered.  You  weep 
yet  more  tears — oh,  vociferous  tears! — and  the  Duchess 
succumbs  to  you  because  you  were  so  devotedly  attached 
to  her  former  husband.  And  England  will  sit  snug  while 
France  reconquers  Europe.  Monsieur,  I  make  you  my 
compliments  on  one  of  the  tidiest  plots  ever  brooded 
over." 

"It  rejoices  me,"  the  Marquis  returned,  "that  a  con 
spirator  of  many  years'  standing  should  commend  my 
maiden  effort."  He  rose.  "And  now,  Monsieur  d'Orms- 
kirk,"  he  continued,  with  extended  hand,  "matters  being 
thus  amicably  adjusted,  shall  we  say  adieu?" 

John  Bulmer  considered.  "Well, — no!"  said  he,  at 
last;  "I  commend  your  cleverness,  Monsieur  de  Soye- 
court,  but  as  concerns  your  hand  I  must  confess  to  a  dis 
taste." 

The  Marquis  smiled.     "Because  at  the  bottom  of  your 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  225 

heart  you  despise  me/'  he  said.     "Ah,  believe  me,  mon 
sieur,  your  contempt  for  de  Soyecourt  is  less  great  than 
mine.     And  yet  I  have  a  weakness  for  him, — a  weakness 
which  induces  me  to  indulge  all  his  desires." 
He  bowed  with  ceremony  and  left  the  garden. 

XI 

John  Bulmer  sat  down  to  consider  more  at  leisure 
these  revelations.  He  foreread  like  a  placard  Jeanne 
d'litoiles'  magnificent  scheme :  it  would  convulse  all 
Europe.  England  would  remain  supine,  because  Henry 
Pelham  could  hardly  hold  the  ministry  together,  even 
now ;  Newcastle  was  a  fool ;  and  Ormskirk  would  be  dead. 
He  would  barter  his  soul  for  one  hour  of  liberty,  he 
thought.  A  riot,  now, — ay,  a  riot  in  Paris,  a  blow  from 
within,  would  temporarily  stupefy  French  enterprise  and 
gain  England  time  for  preparation.  And  a  riot  could  be 
arranged  so  easily!  Meanwhile  he  was  a  prisoner,  Pel- 
ham's  hands  were  tied,  and  Newcastle  was  a  fool,  and  the 
Pompadour  was  disastrously  remote  from  being  a  fool. 

"It  is  possible  to  announce  that  I  am  the  Duke  of 
Ormskirk — and  to  what  end?  Faith,  I  had  as  well  pro 
claim  myself  the  Pope  of  Rome  or  the  Cazique  of 
Mexico:  the  jackanapes  will  effect  to  regard  my  confes 
sion  as  the  device  of  a  desperate  man  and  will  hang  me 
just  the  same ;  and  his  infernal  comedy  will  go  on  without 
a  hitch.  Nay,  I  am  fairly  trapped,  and  Monsieur  de  Soye 
court  holds  the  winning  hand —  Now  that  I  think  of  it 
he  even  has,  in  Mr.  Bulmer's  letter  of  introduction,  my 
formally  signed  statement  that  I  am  not  Ormskirk.  It 
was  tactful  of  the  small  rascal  not  to  allude  to  that  crown- 


226  GALLANTRY 


ing  piece  of  stupidity:  I  appreciate  his  forbearance. 
But  even  so,  to  be  outwitted — and  hanged — by  a  smirking 
Hop-o'-my-thumb ! 

"Oh,  this  is  very  annoying!"  said  John  Bulmer,  in  his 
impotence. 

He  sat  down  once  more,  sulkily,  like  an  overfed  cat, 
and  began  to  read  with  desperate  attention :  "  'Here  may 
men  understand  that  be  of  worship,  that  he  was  never 
formed  that  at  every  time  might  stand,  but  sometimes 
he  was  put  to  the  worse  by  evil  fortune.  And  at  some 
times  the  worse  knight  putteth  the  better  knight  into 
rebuke.'  Behold  a  niggardly  salve  rather  than  a  pana 
cea."  He  turned  several  pages.  "  'And  then  said  Sir 
Tristram  to  Sir  Lamorake,  "I  require  you  if  ye  happen 
to  meet  with  Sir  Palomides — * "  Startled,  John  Bulmer 
glanced  about  the  garden. 

It  turned  on  a  sudden  into  the  primal  garden  of  Para 
dise.  "I  came,"  she  loftily  explained,  "because  I  con 
sidered  it  my  duty  to  apologize  in  person  for  leading  you 
into  great  danger.  Our  scouts  tell  us  that  already 
Cazaio  is  marshalling  his  men  upon  the  Taunenfels." 

"And  yet,"  John  Bulmer  said,  as  he  arose,  and  put 
away  his  book,  "Bellegarde  is  a  strong  place.  And  our 
good  Marquis,  whatever  else  he  may  be,  is  neither  a  fool 
nor  a  coward." 

Claire  shrugged.  "Cazaio  has  ten  men  to  our  one. 
Yet  perhaps  we  can  hold  out  till  Gaston  comes  with  his 
dragoons.  And  then — well,  I  have  some  influence  with 
Gaston.  He  will  not  deny  me, — ah,  surely  he  will  not 
deny  me  if  I  go  down  on  my  knees  to  him  and  wear  my 
very  prettiest  gown.  Nay,  at  bottom  Gaston  is  kind, 
my  friend,  and  he  will  spare  you." 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  227 

"To  be  your  husband?"  said  John  Buhner. 

Twice  she  faltered  "No."  And  then  she  cried,  with  a 
sudden  flare  of  irritation:  "I  do  not  love  you!  I  can 
not  help  that.  Oh,  you — you  unutterable  bully  !>r 

Gravely  he  shook  his  head  at  her. 

"But  indeed  you  are  a  bully.  You  are  trying  to  bully 
me  into  caring  for  you,  and  you  know  it.  What  else 
moved  you  to  return  to  Bellegarde,  and  to  sit  here,  a 
doomed  man,  tranquilly  reading?  Yes,  but  you  were, — I 
happened  to  see  you,  through  the  key-hole  in  the  gate. 
And  why  else  should  you  be  doing  that  unless  you  were 
trying  to  bully  me  into  admiring  you  ?" 

"Because  I  adore  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  taking  affairs 
in  order;  "and  because  in  this  noble  and  joyous  history 
of  the  great  conqueror  and  excellent  monarch,  King 
Arthur,  I  find  much  diverting  matter ;  and  because,  to  be 
quite  frank,  Claire,  I  consider  an  existence  without  you 
neither  alluring  nor  possible." 

She  had  noticeably  pinkened.  "Oh,  monsieur,"  the 
girl  cried,  "you  are  laughing  because  you  are  afraid  that 
I  will  laugh  at  what  you  are  saying  to  me.  Believe  me, 
I  have  no  desire  to  laugh.  It  frightens  me,  rather.  I 
had  thought  that  nowadays  no  man  could  behave  with  a 
foolishness  so  divine.  I  had  thought  all  such  extrava 
gancy  perished  with  the  Launcelot  and  Palomides  of  your 
book.  *And  I  had  thought — that  in  any  event,  you  had 
no  earthly  right  to  call  me  Claire." 

"Superficially,  the  reproach  is  just,"  he  assented,  "but 
what  was  the  name  your  Palomides  cried  in  battle,  pray  ? 
Was  it  not  Ysoude!  when  his  searching  sword  had  at  last 
found  the  joints  of  his  adversary's  armor,  or  when  the 
foe's  helmet  spouted  blood?  Ysoude!  when  the  line  of 


228  GALLANTRY 


adverse  spears  wavered  and  broke,  'and  the  Saracen  was 
victor?  Was  it  not  Ysoude!  he  murmured  riding  over 
alien  hill  and  valley  in  pursuit  of  the  Questing  Beast? — 
'the  glatisant  beast5?  Assuredly,  he  cried  Ysoude!  and 
meantime  La  Beale  Ysoude  sits  snug  in  Cornwall  with 
Tristram,  who  dons  his  armor  once  in  a  while  to  roll 
Palomides  in  the  sand  coram  populo.  Still  the  name  was 
sweet,  and  I  protest  the  Saracen  had  a  perfect  right  to 
mention  it  whenever  he  felt  so  inclined." 

"You  jest  at  everything,"  she  lamented — "which  is 
one  of  the  many  traits  that  I  dislike  in  you." 

"Knowing  your  heart  to  be  very  tender,"  he  submitted, 
"I  am  endeavoring  to  present  as  jovial  and  callous  an 
appearance  as  may  be  possible — to  you,  whom  I  love  as 
Palomides  loved  Ysoude.  Otherwise,  you  might  be 
cruelly  upset  by  your  compassion  and  sympathy.  Yet 
stay;  is  there  not  another  similitude?  Assuredly,  for 
you  love  me  much  as  Ysoude  loved  Palomides.  What 
the  deuce  is  all  this  lamentation  to  you?  You  do  not 
value  it  the  beard  of  an  onion, — while  of  course  grieving 
that  your  friendship  should  have  been  so  utterly  miscon 
strued,  and  wrongly  interpreted,  and  trusting  that  noth 
ing  you  have  said  or  done  has  misled  me —  Oh,  but  I 
know  you  women!" 

"Indeed,  I  sometimes  wonder,"  she  reflected,  "what 
sort  of  women  you  have  been  friends  with  hitherto? 
They  must  have  been  very  patient  of  nonsense." 

"Ah,  do  you  think  so?  At  all  events,  you  interrupt 
my  peroration.  For  we  have  fought,  you  and  I,  a  battle 
which  is  over,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  And  the  other 
side  has  won.  Well!  Pompey  was  reckoned  a  very 
pretty  fellow  in  his  day,  but  he  took  to  his  heels  at 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  229 

Pharsalia,  for  all  that ;  and  Hannibal,  I  have  heard,  did 
not  have  matters  entirely  his  own  way  at  Zama.  Good 
men  have  been  beaten  before  this.  So,  without  stopping 
to  cry  over  spilt  milk, — heyho!"  he  interpolated,  with  a 
grimace,  "it  was  uncommonly  sweet  milk,  though, — let's 
back  to  our  tents  and  reckon  up  our  wounds." 

"I  am  decidedly  of  the  opinion,"  she  said,  "that  for 
all  your  talk  you  will  find  your  heart  unscratched." 
Irony  bewildered  Claire,  though  she  invariably  recognized 
it,  and  gave  it  a  polite  smile. 

John  Bulmer  said:  "Faith,  I  do  not  intend  to  flatter 
your  vanity  by  going  into  a  decline  on  the  spot.  For  in 
perfect  frankness,  I  find  no  mortal  wounds  anywhere. 
No,  we  have  it  on  the  best  authority  that,  while  many  men 
have  died  from  time  to  time,  and  worms  have  eaten  them, 
it  was  never  for  love.  I  am  inclined  to  agree  with  Rosa 
lind  :  an  aneurism  may  be  fatal,  but  a  broken  heart  kills 
nobody.  Lovers  have  died  in  divers  manners  since  the 
antique  world  was  made,  but  not  the  most  luckless  of 
them  was  slain  by  love.  Even  Palomides,  as  my  book 
informs  me,  went  abroad  with  Launcelot  and  probably 
died  an  old  man  here  in  France, — peaceably,  in  his  bed, 
with  the  family  physician  in  attendance,  and  every  other 
circumstance  becoming  to  a  genteel  demise.  And  I  dare 
assert  that  long  before  this  he  had  learned  to  chuckle  over 
his  youthful  follies,  and  had  protested  to  his  wife  that 
La  Beale  Ysoude  squinted,  or  was  freckled,  or  the  like ; 
and  had  insisted,  laughingly,  that  the  best  of  us  must  sow 
our  wild  oats.  And  at  the  last  it  was  his  wife  who  mixed 
his  gruel  and  smoothed  his  pillow  and  sat  up  with  him  at 
night;  so  that  if  he  died  thinking  of  Madame  Palomides 
rather  than  of  La  Beale  Ysoude,  who  shall  blame  him? 


230  GALLANTRY 


Not  I,  for  one,"  said  John  Bulmer,  stoutly;  "if  it  was 
not  heroic,  it  was  at  least  respectable,  and,  above  all, 
natural ;  and  I  expect  some  day  to  gasp  out  a  similar  vale 
dictory.  No,  not  to-morrow  at  noon,  I  think:  I  shall 
probably  get  out  of  this,  somehow.  And  when,  in  any 
event,  I  set  about  the  process  of  dying,  I  may  be  thinking 
of  you,  O  fair  lost  lady !  and  again  I  may  not  be  think 
ing  of  you.  Who  can  say?  A  fly,  for  instance,  may 
have  lighted  upon  my  nose  and  his  tickling  may  have  dis 
tracted  my  ultimate  thoughts.  Meanwhile,  I  love  you 
consumedly,  and  you  do  not  care  a  snap  of  your  fingers 
forme." 

"I — I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  inadequately. 

"You  are  the  more  gracious."  And  his  face  sank  down 
into  his  hands,  and  Claire  was  forgotten,  for  he  was  re 
membering  Alison  Pleydell  and  that  ancient  bankruptcy 
of  his  heart  in  youth,  and  this  preposterous  old  John 
Bulmer  (he  reflected)  was  simply  revelling  in  pity  for 
himself. 

A  hand,  feather-soft,  fell  upon  his  shoulder.  "And 
who  was  your  Ysoude,  Jean  Bulmer  ?" 

"A  woman  who  died  twenty  years  ago, — a  woman  dead 
before  you  were  born,  my  dear." 

Claire  gave  a  little  stifled  moan.  "Oh — oh,  I  loathe 
her !"  she  cried. 

But  when  he  raised  his  head  Claire  was  gone. 

XII 

He  sat  long  in  the  twilight,  now  rising  insensibly  about 
him.  The  garden  had  become  a  grave,  yet  not  unfriendly, 
place ;  the  white  straining  Nereids  were  taking  on  a  tinge 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  231 

of  violet,  the  verdure  was  of  a  deeper  hue,  that  was  all ; 
and  the  fountain  plashed  unhurriedly,  as  though  measur 
ing  a  reasonable  interval  (he  whimsically  imagined)  be 
tween  the  asking  of  a  riddle  and  its  solution  given  gratis 
by  the  asker. 

He  loved  the  woman ;  granted :  but  did  not  love  rise 
the  higher  above  a  corner-stone  of  delusion?  And  this 
he  could  never  afford.  He  considered  Claire  to  be  not 
extravagantly  clever,  he  could  have  improved  upon  her 
ears  (to  cite  one  instance),  which  were  rather  clumsily 
modelled;  her  finger-tips  were  a  thought  too  thick,  a 
shade  too  practical,  and  in  fine  she  was  no  more  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world  than  she  was  the  tallest: 
and  yet  he  loved  her  as  certainly  he  had  loved  none  of  his 
recent  mistresses.  Even  so,  here  was  no  infatuation,  no 
roseate  and  kindly  haze  surrounding  a  goddess,  such 
as  that  which  had  by  ordinary  accompanied  Alison 
Pleydell.  .  .  . 

"I  am  grown  older,  perhaps.  Perhaps  it  is  merely 
that  I  am  fashioned  of  baser  stuff  than — say,  Achille 
Cazaio  or  de  Soyecourt.  Or  perhaps  it  is  that  this  over 
mastering,  all-engulfing  love  is  a  mere  figment  of  the 
poet,  an  age-long  superstition  as  zealously  preserved  as 
that  of  the  inscrutability  of  women,  by  men  who  don't 
believe  a  syllable  of  the  nonsense  they  are  transmitting. 
Ysoude  is  dead ;  and  I  love  my  young  French  wife  as 
thoroughly  as  Palomides  did,  with  as  great  a  passion  as 
was  possible  to  either  of  us  oldsters.  Well!  all  life  is 
a  compromise;  I  compromise  with  tradition  by  loving  her 
unselfishly,  by  loving  her  with  the  very  best  that  remains 
in  John  Bulmer. 

"And  yet,  I  wish — 


232  GALLANTRY 


"True,  I  may  be  hanged  at  noon  to-morrow,  which 
would  somewhat  disconcert  my  plan.  I  shall  not  bother 
about  that.  Always  there  remains  the  chance  that,  some 
how,  Gaston  may  arrive  in  time:  otherwise — why,  other 
wise  I  shall  be  hanged,  and  as  to  what  will  happen  after 
ward  I  decline  to  enter  into  any  discussion  even  with  my 
self.  I  have  my  belief,  but  it  is  bolstered  by  no  iota 
of  knowledge.  Faith,  let  us  live  this  life  as  a  gentleman 
should,  and  keep  our  hands  and  our  consciences  as  clean 
as  may  be  possible,  and  for  the  outcome  trust  to  God's 
common-sense.  There  are  people  who  must  divert  Him 
vastly  by  their  frantic  efforts  to  keep  out  of  hell.  For 
•my  own  part,  I  would  not  think  of  wearing  a  pelisse  in 
the  Desert  of  Sahara  merely  because  I  happened  to  be 
sailing  for  Greenland  during  the  ensuing  week.  I  shall 
trust  to  His  common-sense. 

"And  yet,  I  wish — 

"I  wish  Reinault  would  hurry  with  the  supper-trays. 
I  am  growing  very  hungry." 

XIII 

That  night  he  was  roused  by  a  tapping  at  his  door. 
"Jean  Bulmer,  Jean  Bulmer!  I  have  bribed  Reinault. 
I  have  the  keys.  Come,  and  I  will  set  you  free." 

"Free  to  do  what?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"To  escape — to  flee  to  your  foggy  England,"  said  the 
voice  without, — "and  to  your  hideous  Englishwomen." 

"Do  you  go  with  me?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"I  do  not."  This  was  spoken  from  the  turrets  of 
decision. 

"In  that  event,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  shall  return  to 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  233 

my  dreams,  which  I  infinitely  prefer  to  the  realities  of  a 
hollow  existence.  And,  besides,  now  one  thinks  of  it,  I 
have  given  my  parole." 

An  infuriate  voice  came  through  the  key-hole.  "You 
are  undoubtedly  a  bully,"  it  stated.  "I  loathe  you." 
Followed  silence. 

Presently  the  voice  said,  "Because  if  you  really  loved 
her  you  were  no  better  than  she  was,  and  so  I  hate  you 
both." 

:t  'Beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  headstrong  as  a  devil/  " 
was  John  Bulmer's  meditation.  Afterward  John  Bulmer 
turned  over  and  went  back  to  sleep. 

For  after  all,  as  he  reflected,  he  had  given  his  parole. 

XIV 

He  was  awakened  later  by  a  shriek  that  was  followed 
by  a  hubbub  of  tumult.  John  Bulmer  sat  erect  in  bed. 
He  heard  a  medley  of  yelling,  of  musketry,  and  of 
crashes,  like  the  dilapidation  of  falling  battlements. 
He  knew  well  enough  what  had  happened.  Cazaio  and 
his  men  were  making  a  night  attack  upon  Bellegarde. 

John  Bulmer  arose  and,  having  lighted  two  candles, 
dressed  himself.  He  cast  aside  the  first  cravat  as  a 
failure,  knotted  the  second  with  scrupulous  nicety,  and 
afterward  sat  down,  facing  the  door  to  his  apartment,  and 
trimmed  his  finger  nails.  Outside  was  Pandemonium, 
and  the  little  scrap  of  sky  visible  from  his  one  window 
was  now  of  a  sullen  red. 

"It  is  very  curious  I  do  not  suffer  more  acutely.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  not  conscious  of  any  particular 
feeling  at  all.  I  believe  that  most  of  us  when  we  are 


234  GALLANTRY 


confronted  with  a  situation  demanding  high  joy  or  agony 
find  ourselves  devoid  of  emotion.  They  have  evidently 
taken  de  Soyecourt  by  surprise.  She  is  yonder  in  that 
hell  outside  and  will  inevitably  be  captured  by  its  most 
lustful  devil — or  else  be  murdered.  I  am  here  like  a 
trapped  rat,  impotent,  waiting  to  be  killed,  which  Cazaio's 
men  will  presently  attend  to  when  they  ransack  the  place 
and  find  r^e.  And  I  feel  nothing,  absolutely  nothing. 

"By  this  she  has  probably  fallen  into  Cazaio's  power — " 

And  the  man  went  mad.  He  dashed  upon  the  locked 
door,  and  tore  at  it  with  soft  white  hands,  so  that  pres 
ently  they  were  all  blood.  He  beat  his  face  upon  the 
door,  cutting  open  his  forehead. 

He  shook  his  bleeding  hands  toward  heaven.  "In  my 
time  I  have  been  cruel.  I  am  less  cruel  than  You !  Let 
me  go !" 

The  door  opened  and  she  stood  upon  the  threshold. 
His  arms  were  about  her  and  repeatedly  he  kissed 
her,  mercilessly,  with  hard  kisses,  crushing  her  in  his 
embrace. 

"Jean,  Jean!"  she  sobbed,  beneath  his  lips,  and  lay 
quite  still  in  his  arms.  He  saw  how  white  and  tender  a 
thing  she  was,  and  the  fierce  embrace  relaxed. 

"You  came  to  me !"  he  said. 

"Louis  had  forgotten  you.  They  had  all  retreated 
to  the  Inner  Tower.1  Cazaio  cannot  take  that,  for  he  has 
no  cannon.  Louis  can  hold  out  there  until  Gaston  comes 
with  help,"  Claire  rapidly  explained.  "But  the  thieves 

aThe  inner  ward,  or  ballium,  which  (according  to  Quinault) 
was  defended  by  ten  towers,  connected  by  an  embattled  stone 
wall  about  thirty  feet  in  height  and  eight  feet  thick,  on  the  sum- 
rait  of  which  was  a  footway;  now  demolished  to  make  way  for 
the  famous  gardens. 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  235 

are  burning  Bellegarde.  I  could  bribe  no  man  to  set  you 
free.  They  were  afraid  to  venture." 

"And  you  came,"  said  John  Bulmer — "you  left  the  tall 
safe  Inner  Tower  to  come  to  me !" 

"I  could  not  let  you  die,  Jean  Bulmer." 

"Why,  then  I  must  live  not  unworthily  the  life  which 
you  have  given  me.  O  God !"  John  Bulmer  cried,  "what 
a  pitiful  creature  was  that  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk! 
Now  make  a  man  of  me,  O  God !" 

"Listen,  dear  madman,"  she  breathed;  "we  cannot  go 
out  into  Bellegarde.  They  are  everywhere — Cazaio's 
men.  They  are  building  huge  fires  about  the  Inner 
Tower ;  but  it  is  all  stone,  and  I  think  Louis  can  hold  out. 
But  we,  Jean  Bulmer,  can  only  retreat  to  the  roofing  of 
this  place.  There  is  a  trap-door  to  admit  you  to  the  top, 
and  there — there  we  can  at  least  live  until  the  dawn." 

"I  am  unarmed,"  John  Bulmer  said ;  "and  weaponless, 
I  cannot  hold  even  a  trap-door  against  armed  men." 

"I  have  brought  you  weapons,"  Claire  returned,  and 
waved  one  hand  toward  the  outer  passageway.  "Nat 
urally  I  would  not  overlook  that.  There  were  many  dead 
men  on  my  way  hither,  and  they  had  no  need  of  weapons. 
I  have  a  sword  here  and  two  pistols." 

"You  are,"  said  John  Bulmer,  with  supreme  convic 
tion,  "the  most  wonderful  woman  in  the  universe.  By 
all  means  let  us  get  to  the  top  of  this  infernal  tower  and 
live  there  as  long  as  we  may  find  living  possible.  But 
first,  will  you  permit  me  to  make  myself  a  thought  tidier  ? 
For  in  my  recent  agitation  as  to  your  whereabouts  I 
have,  I  perceive,  somewhat  disordered  both  my  person 
and  my  apparel." 

Claire  laughed  a  little  sadly.     "You  have  been  sincere 


236  GALLANTRY 


for  once  in  your  existence,  and  you  are  hideously 
ashamed,  is  it  not?  Ah,  my  friend,  I  would  like  you  so 
much  better  if  you  were  not  always  playing  at  life,  not 
always  posing  as  if  for  your  portrait." 

"For  my  part,"  he  returned,  obscurely,  from  the  rear  of 
a  wet  towel,  "I  fail  to  perceive  any  particular  merit  in 
dying  with  a  dirty  face.  We  are  about  to  deal  with  a 
most  important  and,  it  well  may  be,  the  final  crisis  of 
our  lives.  So  let  us  do  it  with  decency." 

Afterward  John  Bulmer  changed  his  cravat,  since  the 
one  he  wore  was  soiled  and  crumpled  and  stained  a  little 
with  his  blood ;  and  they  went  up  the  winding  stairway 
to  the  top  of  the  Constable's  Tower.  These  two  passed 
through  the  trap-door  into  a  moonlight  which  drenched 
the  world;  westward  the  higher  walls  of  the  Hugonet 
Wing  shut  off  that  part  of  Bellegarde  where  men  were 
slaughtering  one  another,  and  turrets,  black  and  un- 
tenanted,  stood  in  strong  relief  against  a  sky  of  shifting 
crimson  and  gold.  At  their  feet  was  the  tiny  enclosed 
garden  half -hidden  by  the  poplar  boughs.  To  the  east 
the  Tower  dropped  sheer  to  the  moat ;  and  past  that  was 
the  curve  of  the  highway  leading  to  the  main  entrance  of 
the  chateau,  and  beyond  this  road  you  saw  Amneran  and 
the  moonlighted  plains  of  the  Duardenez,  and  one  little 
tributary,  a  thread  of  pulsing  silver,  in  passage  to  the 
great  river  which  showed  as  a  smear  of  white,  like  a 
chalk-mark  on  the  world's  rim. 

John  Bulmer  closed  the  trap-door.  They  stood  with 
clasped  hands,  eyes  straining  toward  the  east,  whence 
help  must  arrive  if  help  came  at  all. 

"No  sign  of  Gaston,"  the  girl  said.  "We  must  die 
presently,  Jean  Bulmer." 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  237 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said, — "Oh,  I  am  hideously  sorry  that 
we  two  must  die." 

"I  am  not  afraid,  Jean  Bulmer.  But  life  would  be  very 
sweet,  with  you." 

"That  was  my  thought,  too.  ...  I  have  always  bun 
gled  this  affair  of  living,  you  conceive.  I  had  considered 
the  world  a  healthy  and  not  intolerable  prison,  where 
each  man  must  get  through  his  day's  work  as  best  he 
might,  soiling  his  fingers  as  much  as  necessity  demanded 
— but  no  more, — so  that  at  the  end  he  might  sleep  soundly, 
— or  perhaps  that  he  might  go  to  heaven  and  pluck  eter 
nally  at  a  harp,  or  else  to  hell  and  burn  eternally,  just  as 
divines  say  we  will.  I  never  bothered  about  it,  much,  so 
long  as  there  was  my  day's  work  at  hand,  demanding 
performance.  And  in  consequence  I  missed  the  whole 
meaning  of  life." 

"That  is  not  so!"  Claire  replied.  "No  man  has 
achieved  more,  as  everybody  knows." 

This  was  an  odd  speech.  But  he  answered,  idly :  "Eh, 
I  have  done  well  enough  as  respectable  persons  judge 
these  matters.  And  I  went  to  church  on  Sundays,  and 
I  paid  my  tithes.  Trifles,  these,  sweetheart ;  for  in  every 
man,  as  I  now  see  quite  plainly,  there  is  a  god.  And  the 
god  must  judge,  and  the  man  himself  must  be  the  temple 
and  the  instrument  of  the  god.  It  is  very  simple,  I  see 
now.  And  whether  he  go  to  church  or  no  is  a  matter  of 
trivial  importance,  so  long  as  the  man  obeys  the  god  who 
is  within  him."  John  Bulmer  was  silent,  staring  vaguely 
toward  the  blank  horizon. 

"And  now  that  you  have  discovered  this,"  she  mur 
mured,  "therefore  you  wish  to  live?" 

"Why,  partly  on  account  of  that,"  he  said,  "yet  per- 


238  GALLANTRY 


haps  mostly  on  account  of  you.  .  .  .  But  heyho!"  said 
John  Bulmer;  "I  am  disriguring  my  last  hours  by  in 
flicting  upon  a  lady  my  half-baked  theology.  Let  us  sit 
down,  my  dear,  and  talk  of  trifles  till  they  find  us.  And 
then  I  will  kill  you,  sweetheart,  and  afterward  myself. 
Presently  come  dawn  and  death ;  and  my  heart,  according 
to  the  ancient  custom  of  Poictesme,  is  crying,  'Oy  Dieusl 
Oy  Dieus,  de  I'alba  tantost  ve!'  But  for  all  that,  my 
mouth  will  resolutely  discourse  of  the  last  Parisian 
flounces,  or  of  your  unfathomable  eyes,  or  of  Monsieur 
de  Voltaire's  new  tragedy  of  Oreste, — or,  in  fine,  of  any 
topic  you  may  elect." 

He  smiled,  with  a  twinging  undercurrent  of  regret  that 
not  even  in  impendent  death  did  he  find  any  stimulus  to 
the  heroical.  But  the  girl  had  given  a  muffled  cry. 

"Look,  Jean!     Already  they  come  for  us." 

Through  the  little  garden  a  man  was  running,  running 
frenziedly  from  one  wall  to  another  when  he  found  the 
place  had  no  outlet  save  the  gate  through  which  he  had 
scuttled.  It  was  fat  Guiton,  the  steward  of  the  Due  de 
Puysange.  Presently  came  Achille  Cazaio  with  a  wet 
sword,  and  harried  the  unarmed  old  man,  wantonly  driv 
ing  him  about  the  poplars,  pricking  him  in  the  quivering 
shoulders,  but  never  killing  him.  All  the  while  the 
steward  screamed  with  a  monotonous  shrill  wailing. 

After  a  little  he  fell  at  Cazaio's  feet,  shrieking  for 
mercy. 

"Fool!"  said  the  latter,  "I  am  Achille  Cazaio.  I  have 
no  mercy  in  me." 

He  kicked  the  steward  in  the  face  two  or  three  times, 
and  Guiton,  his  countenance  all  blood,  black  in  the  moon 
light,  embraced  the  brigand's  knees  and  wept.  Presently 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  239 

Cazaio  slowly  drove  his  sword  into  the  back  of  the  pros 
trate  man,  who  shrieked,  "O  Jesu!"  and  began  to  cough 
and  choke.  Five  times  Cazaio  spitted  the  writhing  thing, 
and  afterward  was  Guiton's  soul  released  from  the  tor 
tured  body. 

"Is  it  well,  think  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "that  I 
should  die  without  first  killing  Achille  Cazaio?" 

"No!"  the  girl  answered,  fiercely. 

Then  John  Bulmer  leaned  upon  the  parapet  of  the 
Constable's  Tower  and  called  aloud,  "Friend  Achille, 
your  conduct  disappoints  me." 

The  man  started,  peered  about,  and  presently  stared 
upward.  "Monsieur  Bulmaire,  to  encounter  you  is  in 
deed  an  unlooked-for  pleasure.  May  I  inquire  wherein 
I  have  been  so  ill-fated  as  to  offend?" 

"You  have  an  engagement  to  fight  me  on  Thursday 
afternoon,  friend  Achille,  so  that  to  all  intent  I  hold  a 
mortgage  on  your  life.  I  submit  that,  in  consequence, 
you  have  no  right  to  endanger  that  life  by  besieging  cas 
tles  and  wasting  the  night  in  assassinations." 

"There  is  something  in  what  you  say,  Monsieur  Bul 
maire,"  the  brigand  replied,  "and  I  very  heartily  apolo 
gize  for  not  thinking  of  it  earlier.  But  in  the  way  of 
business,  you  understand, —  However,  may  I  trust  it 
will  please  you  to  release  me  from  this  inconvenient 
obligation?"  Cazaio  added,  with  a  smile.  "My  men  are 
waiting  for  me  yonder,  you  comprehend." 

"In  fact,"  said  John  Bulmer,  hospitably,  "up  here  the 
moonlight  is  as  clear  as  day.  We  can  settle  our  affair  in 
five  minutes." 

"I  come,"  said  Cazaio,  and  plunged  into  the  entrance 
to  the  Constable's  Tower. 


240  GALLANTRY 


"The  pistol !  quick !"  said  Claire. 

"And  for  what,  pray?"  said  John  Bulmer. 

"So  that  from  behind,  as  he  lifts  the  trap-door,  I  may 
shoot  him  through  the  head.  Do  you  stand  in  front  as 
though  to  receive  him.  It  will  be  quite  simple." 

XV 

"My  dear  creature,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "I  am  now 
doubly  persuaded  that  God  entirely  omitted  what  we 
term  a  sense  of  honor  when  He  created  the  woman.  I 
mean  to  kill  this  rapscallion,  but  I  mean  to  kill  him 
fairly."  He  unbolted  the  trap-door  and  immediately 
Cazaio  stood  upon  the  roof,  his  sword  drawn. 

Achille  Cazaio  stared  at  the  tranquil  woman,  and  now 
his  countenance  was  less  that  of  a  satyr  than  of  a  demon. 
"At  four  in  the  morning!  I  congratulate  you,  Monsieur 
Bulmaire,"  he  said, — "Oh,  decidedly,  I  congratulate  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  John  Bulmer,  sword  in  hand ;  "yes, 
we  were  married  yesterday." 

Cazaio  drew  a  pistol  from  his  girdle  and  fired  full  in 
John  Bulmer's  face;  but  the  latter  had  fallen  upon  one 
knee,  and  the  ball  sped  harmlessly  above  him. 

"You  are  very  careless  with  fire-arms,"  John  Bulmer 
lamented.  "Really,  friend  Achille,  if  you  are  not  more 
circumspect  you  will  presently  injure  somebody,  and  will 
forever  afterward  be  consumed  with  unavailing  regret 
and  compunctions.  Now  let  us  get  down  to  our  affair." 

They  crossed  blades  in  the  moonlight.  Cazaio  was  in 
a  disastrous  condition;  John  Bulmer's  tolerant  accep 
tance  of  any  meanness  that  a  Cazaio  might  attempt,  the 
vital  shame  of  this  new  and  baser  failure  before  Claire's 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  241 

very  eyes,  had  made  of  Cazaio  a  crazed  beast.  He 
slobbered  little  flecks  of  foam,  clinging  like  hoar-frost  to 
the  tangled  beard,  and  he  breathed  with  shuddering  in 
halations,  like  a  man  in  agony,  the  while  that  he  charged 
with  redoubling  thrusts.  The  Englishman  appeared  to 
be  enjoying  himself,  discreetly ;  he  chuckled  as  the  other, 
cursing,  shifted  from  tierce  to  quart,  and  he  met  the  as 
sault  with  a  nice  inevitableness.  In  all,  each  movement 
had  the  comely  precision  of  finely  adjusted  clockwork, 
though  at  times  John  Bulmer's  face  showed  a  spurt  of 
amusement  roused  by  the  brigand's  extravagancy  of  ges 
ture  and  Cazaio's  contortions  as  he  strove  to  pass  the  line 
of  steel  that  flickered  cannily  between  his  sword  and  John 
Bulmer's  portly  bosom. 

Then  John  Bulmer,  too,  attacked.  "For  Guiton!"  said 
he,  as  his  point  slipped  into  Cazaio's  breast.  John  Bul 
mer  recoiled  and  lodged  another  thrust  in  the  brigand's 
throat.  "For  attempting  to  assassinate  me!"  His  foot 
stamped  as  his  sword  ran  deep  into  Cazaio's  belly.  "For 
insulting  my  wife  by  thinking  of  her  obscenely!  You 
are  a  dead  man,  friend  Achille." 

Cazaio  had  dropped  his  sword,  reeling  as  if  drunken 
against  the  western  battlement.  "My  comfort,"  he  said, 
hoarsely,  while  one  hand  tore  at  his  jetting  throat — "my 
comfort  is  that  I  could  not  perish  slain  by  a  braver 
enemy."  He  moaned  and  stumbled  backward.  Mo 
mentarily  his  knees  gripped  the  low  embrasure.  Then 
his  feet  flipped  upward,  convulsively,  so  that  John  Bul 
mer  saw  the  man's  spurs  glitter  and  twitch  in  the  moon 
light,  and  John  Bulmer  heard  a  snapping  and  crackling 
and  swishing  among  the  poplars,  and  heard  the  heavy, 
unvibrant  thud  of  Cazaio's  body  upon  the  turf. 


242  GALLANTRY 


"May  he  find  more  mercy  than  he  has  merited,"  said 
John  Bulmer,  "for  the  man  had  excellent  traits.  Yes, 
in  him  the  making  of  a  very  good  swordsman  was  spoiled 
by  that  abominable  Boisrobert." 

But  Claire  had  caught  him  by  the  shoulder.  "Look, 
Jean!" 

He  turned  toward  the  Duardenez.  A  troop  of  horse 
men  was  nearing.  Now  they  swept  about  the  curve  in  the 
highway  and  at  their  head  was  de  Puysange,  laughing 
terribly.  The  dragoons  went  by  like  a  tumult  in  a  sick 
man's  dream,  and  the  Hugonet  Wing  had  screened  them. 

"Then  Bellegarde  is  relieved,"  said  John  Bulmer,  "and 
your  life,  at  least,  is  saved." 

The  girl  stormed.  "You — you  abominable  trickster! 
You  would  not  be  content  with  the  keys  of  heaven  if  you 
had  not  got  them  by  outwitting  somebody!  Do  you 
fancy  I  had  never  seen  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk's  portrait? 
Gaston  sent  me  one  six  months  ago." 

"Ah!"  said  John  Bulmer,  very  quietly.  He  took  up 
the  discarded  scabbard,  and  he  sheathed  his  sword  without 
speaking. 

Presently  he  said,  "You  have  been  cognizant  all  along 
that  I  was  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  promptly. 

"And  you  married  me,  knowing  that  I  was — God  save 
the  mark! — the  great  Duke  of  Ormskirk?  knowing  that 
you  made  what  we  must  grossly  term  a  brilliant  match  ?" 

"I  married  you  because,  in  spite  of  Jean  Bulmer,  you 
had  betrayed  yourself  to  be  a  daring  and  a  gallant  gen 
tleman, — and  because,  for  a  moment,  I  thought  that  I 
did  not  dislike  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk  quite  so  much  as 
I  ought  to." 


IN  THE  SECOND  APRIL  243 

He  digested  this. 

"O  Jean  Bulmer,"  the  girl  said,  "they  tell  me  you 
were  ever  a  fortunate  man,  but  I  consider  you  the  unluck- 
iest  I  know  of.  For  always  you  are  afraid  to  be  yourself. 
Sometimes  you  forget,  and  are  just  you — and  then,  ohe ! 
you  remember,  and  are  only  a  sulky,  fat  old  gentleman 
who  is  not  you  at  all,  somehow ;  so  that  at  times  I  detest 
you,  and  at  times  I  cannot  thoroughly  detest  you.  So 
that  I  played  out  the  comedy,  Jean  Bulmer.  I  meant  in 
the  end  to  tell  Louis  who  you  were,  of  course,  and  not  let 
them  hang  you ;  but  I  never  quite  trusted  you ;  and  I 
never  knew  whether  I  detested  you  or  no,  at  bottom,  until 
last  night." 

"Last  night  you  left  the  safe  Inner  Tower  to  come  to 
me — to  save  me  at  all  hazards,  or  else  to  die  with  me — 
And  for  what  reason,  did  you  do  this  ?" 

"You  are  bullying  me !"  she  wailed. 

"And  for  what  reason,  did  you  do  this  ?"  "he  repeated, 
without  any  change  of  intonation. 

"Can  you  not  guess  ?"  she  asked.  "Oh,  because  I  am  a 
fool !"  she  stated,  very  happily,  for  his  arms  were  about 
her. 

"Eh,  in  that  event — "  said  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk. 
"Look!"  said  he,  with  a  deeper  thrill  of  speech,  "it  is 
the  dawn." 

They  turned  hand  in  hand ;  and  out  of  the  east  the  sun 
came  statelily,  and  a  new  day  was  upon  them. 


VIII 

HEART  OF  GOLD 
As  Played  at  Paris,  in  the  May  of  1750 

"Cette  amoureuse  ardeur  qui  dans  Us  cceurs  sf  excite 
N'est  point,  comme  I' on  sgait,  un  effet  du  merite; 
Le  caprice  y  prend  part,  et,  quand  quelqu'un  nous  plaist, 
Souvent  nous  avons  peine  a  dire  pourquoy  c*est. 
Mais  on  vois  que  V amour  se  gouverne  autrement." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

Due  DE  PUYSANGE,  somewhat  given  to  women,  and  now 
and  then  to  good-fellowship,  but  a  man  of  excellent 
disposition. 

MARQUIS  DE  SOYECOURT,  his  cousin,  and  loves  de  Puy 
sange 's  wife. 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

DUCHESSE  DE  PUYSANGE,  a  precise,  but  amiable  and 
patient,  woman. 

ANTOINE,  LACKEYS  to  de  Puysange,  Etc. 

SCENE 
Paris,  mostly  within  and  about  the  Hotel  de  Puysange. 


HEART  OF  GOLD 
PROEM: — Necessitated  by  a  Change  of  Scene 

YOU  are  not  to  imagine  that  John  Bulmer  debated 
an  exposure  of  de  Soyecourt.  "Live  and  let  live'* 
was  the  Englishman's  axiom ;  the  exuberant 
Cazaio  was  dead,  his  men  were  either  slain  or  dispersed, 
and  the  whole  tangle  of  errors — with  judicious  reserva 
tions — had  now  been  unravelled  to  Gaston's  satisfaction. 
And  Claire  de  Puysange  was  now  Duchess  of  Ormskirk. 
Why,  then,  meddle  with  Destiny,  who  appeared,  after  all, 
to  possess  a  certain  sense  of  equity  ? 

So  Ormskirk  smiled  as  he  presently  went  about  Paris, 
on  his  own  business,  and  when  he  and  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
encountered  each  other  their  friendliness  was  monstrous 
in  its  geniality. 

They  were  now  one  and  all  in  Paris,  where  Ormskirk's 
marriage  had  been  again,  and  more  publicly,  solemnized. 
De  Puysange  swore  that  his  sister  was  on  this  occasion 
the  loveliest  person  affordable  by  the  resources  of  the  uni 
verse,  but  de  Soyecourt  backed  another  candidate ;  so  that 
over  their  wine  the  two  gentlemen  presently  fell  into  a 
dispute. 

"Nay,  but  I  protest  to  you  she  is  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  all  Paris !"  cried  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt,  and 
kissed  his  finger-tips  gallantly. 

"My  dear  Louis,"  the  Due  de  Puysange  retorted,  "her 
eyes  are  noticeable,  perhaps ;  and  I  grant  you/'  he  added, 

247 


248  GALLANTRY 


slowly,  "that  her  husband  is  not  often  troubled  by — that 
which  they  notice." 

"—And  the  cleverest !" 

"I  have  admitted  she  knows  when  to  be  silent.  What 
more  would  you  demand  of  any  woman?" 

"And  yet — "  The  little  Marquis  waved  a  reproachful 
forefinger. 

"Why,  but,"  said  the  Duke,  with  utter  comprehension, 
"it  is  not  for  nothing  that  our  house  traces  from  the  great 
Jurgen— " 

He  was  in  a  genial  midnight  mood,  and,  on  other  sub 
jects,  inclined  to  be  garrulous;  for  the  world,  viewed 
through  a  slight  haze,  of  vinous  origin,  seemed  a  pleasant 
place,  and  inspired  a  kindly  desire  to  say  diverting  things 
about  the  world's  contents.  He  knew  the  Marquis  to  be 
patient,  and  even  stolid,  under  a  fusillade  of  epigram 
and  paradox;  in  short,  de  Puysange  knew  the  hour  and 
the  antagonist  for  midnight  talk  to  be  at  hand.  And  a 
saturnalia  of  phrases  whirled  in  his  brain,  demanding 
utterance. 

He  waved  them  aside.  Certain  inbred  ideas  are 
strangely  tenacious  of  existence,  and  it  happened  to  be 
his  wife  they  were  discussing.  It  would  not  be  good 
form,  de  Puysange  felt,  for  him  to  evince  great  interest 
in  this  topic.  .  .  . 


"And  yet,"  de  Puysange  queried,  as  he  climbed  demo 
cratically  into  a  public  hackney  coach,  "why  not?  For 
my  part,  I  see  no  good  and  sufficient  reason  for  discrim- 


HEART  OF  GOLD  249 


inating  against  the  only  woman  one  has  sworn  to  love 
and  cherish  and  honor.  It  is  true  that  several  hundred 
people  witnessed  the  promise,  with  a  perfect  understand 
ing  of  the  jest,  and  that  the  keeping  of  this  oath  involves 
a  certain  breach  of  faith  with  society.  Eh  bien!  let  us, 
then,  deceive  the  world — and  the  flesh — and  the  devil! 
Let  us  snap  our  ringers  at  this  unholy  trinity,  and  assert 
the  right,  when  the  whim  takes  us,  to  make  unstinted 
love  to  our  own  wives !" 

He  settled  back  in  the  fiacre  to  deliberate.  "It  is 
bourgeois  ?  Bah !  the  word  is  the  first  refuge  of  the  un 
skilful  poseur!  It  is  bourgeois  to  be  born,  to  breathe, 
to  sleep,  or  eat;  in  which  of  the  functions  that  con 
sume  the  greater  part  of  my  life  do  I  differ  from  my 
grocer  ?  Bourgeois !  why,  rightly  considered,  to  be  a 
human  being  at  all  is  quite  inordinately  bourgeois!  And 
it  is  very  notably  grocer-like  to  maintain  a  grave  face 
and  two  establishments,  to  chuckle  privily  over  the  frag 
ments  of  the  seventh  commandment,  to  repent,  upon  de 
tection,  and  afterward — ces  betes-la! — to  drink  poison. 
Ma  f oi,  I  infinitely  prefer  the  domestic  coffee !" 

The  Due  de  Puysange  laughed,  and  made  as  though  to 
wave  aside  the  crudities  of  life.  "All  vice  is  bourgeois, 
and  fornication  in  particular  tends  to  become  sordid, 
outworn,  vieux  jeu !  In  youth,  I  grant  you,  it  is  the  un- 
expurgated  that  always  happens.  But  at  my  age — miseri- 
corde! — the  men  yawn,  and  les  demoiselles — bah!  les 
demoiselles  have  the  souls  of  accountants!  They  buy 
and  sell,  as  my  grocer  does.  The  satiation  of  carnal  de 
sires  is  no  longer  a  matter  of  splendid  crimes  and  sorrows 
and  kingdoms  lost ;  it  is  a  matter  of  business." 


250  GALLANTRY 


The  harsh  and  swarthy  face  relaxed.  With  a  little 
sigh  the  Due  de  Puysange  had  closed  his  fevered  eyes. 
About  them  were  a  multitude  of  tiny  lines,  and  of  this 
fact  he  was  obscurely  conscious,  in  a  wearied  fashion, 
when  he  again  looked  out  on  the  wellnigh  deserted  streets, 
now  troubled  by  a  hint  of  dawn.  His  eyes  were  old :  they 
had  seen  much.  Two  workmen  shambled  by,  chatting  on 
their  way  to  the  day's  work :  in  the  attic  yonder  a  drunken 
fellow  sang.  "Ah,  bouteille  ma  mie,"  he  bellowed, 
"pourquoi  vous  vuidez-vous  ?" 

De  Puysange  laughed.  "I  suppose  I  have  no  con 
science,  but  at  least,  I  can  lay  claim  to  a  certain  fas 
tidiousness.  I  am  very  wicked," — he  smiled,  without 
mirth  or  bitterness, — "I  have  sinned  notably  as  the  world 
accounts  it;  indeed,  I  think,  my  repute  is  as  abominable 
as  that  of  any  man  living.  And  I  am  tired, — alas,  I  am 
damnably  tired!  I  have  found  the  seven  deadly  sins 
deadly,  beyond  doubt,  but  only  deadly  dull  and  deadly 
commonplace.  I  have  perseveringly  frisked  in  the  high 
places  of  iniquity,  I  have  junketed  with  all  evil  gods,  and 
the  utmost  they  could  pretend  to  offer  any  of  their  servi 
tors  was  a  spasm.  I  renounce  them  as  feeble-minded 
deities,  I  snap  my  fingers,  very  much  as  did  my  pro 
genitor,  the  great  Jurgen,  at  all  their  over-rated  mys 
teries." 

His  glance  caught  and  clung  for  a  moment:  to  the  pal 
ing  splendor  of  the  moon  that  hung  low  in  the  vacant, 
dove-colored  heavens.  A  faint  pang,  half-envy,  half- 
regret,  vexed  the  Duke  with  a  dull  twinge.  "I  wish  too 
that  by  living  continently  I  could  have  done,  once  for  all, 
with  this  faded  pose  and  this  idle  making  of  phrases! 
Eheu !  there  is  a  certain  proverb  concerning  pitch  so  cyn- 


HEART  OF  GOLD  251 


ical  that  I  suspect  it  of  being  truthful.  However, — we 
shall  see." 

De  Puysange  smiled.  "The  most  beautiful  woman  in 
all  Paris?  Ah,  yes,  she  is  quite  that,  is  this  grave  silent 
female  whose  eyes  are  more  fathomless  and  cold  than 
oceans !  And  how  cordially  she  despises  me !  Ma  f  oi, 
I  think  that  if  her  blood — which  is,  beyond  doubt,  of  a 
pale-pink  color, — be  ever  stirred,  at  all,  it  is  with  loathing 
of  her  husband.  Well,  life  holds  many  surprises  for 
madame,  now  that  I  become  quite  as  virtuous  as  she  is. 
We  will  arrange  a  very  pleasant  comedy  of  belated  court 
ship  ;  for  are  we  not  bidden  to  love  one  another  ?  So  be 
it, — I  am  henceforth  the  model  pere  de  famille." 

Now  the  fiacre  clattered  before  the  Hotel  de  Puysange. 

The  door  was  opened  by  a  dull-eyed  lackey,  whom  de 
Puysange  greeted  with  a  smile.  "Bon  jour,  Antoine!" 
cried  the  Duke;  "I  trust  that  your  wife  and  doubtless 
very  charming  children  have  good  health?" 

"Beyond  question,  monseigneur,"  the  man  answered, 
stolidly. 

"That  is  excellent  hearing,"  de  Puysange  said,  "and 
it  rejoices  me  to  be  reassured  of  their  welfare.  For  the 
happiness  of  others,  Antoine,  is  very  dear  to  the  heart 
of  a  father — and  of  a  husband."  The  Duke  chuckled 
seraphically  as  he  passed  down  the  hall.  The  man  stared 
after  him,  and  shrugged. 

"Rather  worse  than  usual,"  Antoine  considered. 

II 

Next  morning  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange  received  an 
immoderate  armful  of  roses,  with  a  fair  copy  of  some 


252  GALLANTRY 


execrable  verses.  De  Puysange  spent  the  afternoon  se 
lecting  bonbons  and  wholesome  books, — "for  his  fiancee," 
he  gravely  informed  the  shopman. 

At  the  Opera  he  never  left  her  box ;  afterward,  at  the 
Comtesse  de  Hauteville's,  he  created  a  furor  by  sitting 
out  three  dances  in  the  conservatory  with  his  wife. 
Mademoiselle  Tiercelin  had  already  received  his  regrets 
that  he  was  spending  that  night  at  home. 


Ill 


The  month  wore  on. 

"It  is  the  true  honeymoon/'  said  the  Duke. 

In  that  event  he  might  easily  have  found  a  quieter 
place  than  Paris  wherein  to  spend  it.  Police  agents  had 
of  late  been  promised  a  premium  for  any  sturdy  beggar, 
whether  male  or  female,  they  could  secure  to  populate  the 
new  plantation  of  Louisiana;  and  as  the  premium  was 
large,  genteel  burgesses,  and  in  particular  the  children 
of  genteel  burgesses,  were  presently  disappearing  in  a 
fashion  their  families  found  annoying.  Now,  from  no 
where,  arose  and  spread  the  curious  rumor  that  King 
Louis,  somewhat  the  worse  for  his  diversions  in  the  Parc- 
aux-Cerfs,  daily  restored  his  vigor  by  bathing  in  the  blood 
of  young  children ;  and  parents  of  the  absentees  began  to 
manifest  a  double  dissatisfaction,  for  the  deduction  was 
obvious. 

There  were  riots.  In  one  of  them  Madame  de  Pom 
padour  barely  escaped  with  her  life,1  and  the  King  him 
self  on  his  way  to  Compiegne,  was  turned  back  at  the 

1  This  was  on  the  afternoon  of  the  famous  ball  given  by  the 
Pompadour  in  honor  of  the  new  Duchess  of  Ormskirk. 


HEART  OF  GOLD  253 


Porte  St.  Antoine,  and  forced  to  make  a  detour  rather 
than  enter  his  own  capital.  After  this  affair  de  Puysange 
went  straight  to  his  brother-in-law. 

"Jean,"  said  he,  "for  a  newly  married  man  you  re 
ceive  too  much  company.  And  afterward  your  visitors 
talk  blasphemously  in  cabarets  and  shoot  the  King's 
musketeers.  I  would  appreciate  an  explanation." 

Ormskirk  shrugged.  "Merely  a  makeshift,  Gaston. 
Merely  a  device  to  gain  time  wherein  England  may  pre 
pare  against  the  alliance  of  France  and  Austria.  Your 
secret  treaty  will  never  be  signed  as  long  as  Paris  is  given 
over  to  rioters.  Nay,  the  Empress  may  well  hesitate  to 
ally  herself  with  a  king  who  thus  clamantly  cannot  govern 
even  his  own  realm.  And  meanwhile  England  will  pre 
pare  herself.  We  will  be  ready  to  fight  you  in  five  years, 
but  we  do  not  intend  to  be  hurried  about  it." 

"Yes,"  de  Puysange  assented ; — "yet  you  err  in  sending 
Cumberland  to  defend  Hanover.  You  will  need  a  better 
man  there/' 

Ormskirk  slapped  his  thigh.  "So  you  intercepted  that 
last  despatch,  after  all !  And  I  could  have  sworn  Candale 
was  trustworthy!" 

"My  adored  Jean,"  replied  de  Puysange,  "he  has  been 
in  my  pay  for  six  months !  Console  yourself  with  the 
reflection  that  you  overbid  us  in  Noumaria." 

"Yes,  but  old  Ludwig  held  out  for  more  than  the  whole 
duchy  is  worth.  We  paid  of  course.  We  had  to  pay." 

"And  one  of  course  congratulates  you  upon  securing 
the  quite  essential  support  of  that  duchy.  Still,  Jean,  if 
there  were  any  accident — "  De  Puysange  was  really  un 
believably  ugly  when  he  smiled.  "For  accidents  do  oc 
cur.  ...  It  is  war,  then?" 


254  GALLANTRY 


"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Ormskirk,  "of  course  it  is  war. 
We  are  about  to  fly  at  each  other's  throats,  with  half 
of  Europe  to  back  each  of  us.  We  begin  the  greatest 
game  we  have  ever  played.  And  we  will  manage  it  very 
badly,  I  dare  say,  since  we  are  each  of  us  just  now  be 
sotted  with  adoration  of  our  wives/' 

"At  times,"  said  de  Puysange,  with  dignity,  "your 
galimatias  are  insufferable.  Now  let  us  talk  like  reason 
able  beings.  In  regard  to  Pomerania,  you  will  readily 
understand  that  the  interests  of  humanity — " 

IV 

Still  the  suggestion  haunted  him.  It  would  be  a 
nuance  too  ridiculous,  of  course,  to  care  seriously  for 
one's  wife,  and  yet  Helene  de  Puysange  was  undeniably  a 
handsome  woman.  As  they  sat  over  the  remains  of  their 
dinner, — a  deux,  by  the  Duke's  request, — she  seemed  to 
her  husband  quite  incredibly  beautiful.  She  exhaled  the 
effects  of  a  water-color  in  discreet  and  delicate  tinctures. 
Lithe  and  fine  and  proud  she  was  to  the  merest  glance ; 
yet  patience,  a  thought  conscious  of  itself,  beaconed  in 
her  eyes,  and  she  appeared,  with  urbanity,  to  regard  life 
as,  upon  the  whole,  a  countrified  performance.  De  Puy 
sange  liked  that  air ;  he  liked  the  reticence  of  every  glance 
and  speech  and  gesture, — liked,  above  all,  the  thinnish 
oval  of  her  face  and  the  staid  splendor  of  her  hair.  Here 
was  no  vulgar  yellow,  no  crass  and  hackneyed  gold  .  .  . 
and  yet  there  was  a  clarified  and  gauzier  shade  of  gold 
.  .  .  the  color  of  the  moon  by  daylight,  say.  .  .  .  Then, 
as  the  pleasures  of  digestion  lapsed  gently  into  the  initial 
amenities  of  sleep,  she  spoke. 


HEART  OF  GOLD  255 


"Monsieur,"  said  she,  "will  you  be  pleased  to  tell  me 
the  meaning  of  this  comedy?" 

"Madame,"  de  Puysange  answered,  and  raised  his 
gloomy  eyebrows,  "I  do  not  entirely  comprehend." 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "believe  me,  I  do  not  undervalue  your 
perception.  I  have  always  esteemed  your  cleverness, 
monsieur,  however  much" — she  paused  for  a  moment,  a 
fluctuating  smile  upon  her  lips, — "however  much  I  may 
have  regretted  its  manifestations.  I  am  not  clever,  and 
to  me  cleverness  has  always  seemed  to  be  an  infinite  in 
capacity  for  hard  work;  its  results  are  usually  a  few 
sonnets,  an  undesirable  wife,  and  a  warning  for  one's 
acquaintances.  In  your  case  it  is,  of  course,  different; 
you  have  your  statesmanship  to  play  with — " 

"And  statesmen  have  no  need  of  cleverness,  you  would 
imply,  madame?" 

"I  do  not  say  that.  In  any  event,  you  are  the  Due  de 
Puysange,  and  the  weight  of  a  great  name  stifles  stupidity 
and  cleverness  without  any  partiality.  With  you,  clever 
ness  has  taken  the  form  of  a  tendency  to  intoxication, 
amours,  and — amiability.  I  have  acquiesced  in  this. 
But,  for  the  past  month — " 

"The  happiest  period  of  my  life !"  breathed  the  Duke. 

" — you  have  been  pleased  to  present  me  with  flow 
ers,  bonbons,  jewels,  and  what  not.  You  have  actually 
accorded  your  wife  the  courtesies  you  usually  pre 
serve  for  the  ladies  of  the  ballet.  You  have  dogged 
my  footsteps,  you  have  attemped  to  intrude  into  my 
bedroom,  you  have  talked  to  me  as — well,  very  much 
as—" 

"Much  as  the  others  do?"  de  Puysange  queried,  help 
fully.  "Pardon  me,  madame,  but,  in  one's  own  husband, 


256  GALLANTRY 


I  had  thought  this  very  routine  might  savor  of  origin 
ality." 

The  Duchess  flushed.  "All  the  world  knows,  monsieur, 
that  in  your  estimation  what  men  have  said  to  me,  or  I 
to  them,  has  been  for  fifteen  years  a  matter  of  no  mo 
ment  !  It  is  not  due  to  you  that  I  am-  still — " 

"A  pearl,"  finished  the  Duke,  gallantly, — then  touched 
himself  upon  the  chest, — "cast  before  swine,"  he  sighed. 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "Yes,  cast  before  swine!"  she 
cried,  with  a  quick  lift  of  speech.  She  seemed  very  tall 
as  she  stood  tapping  her  fingers  upon  the  table,  irreso 
lutely  ;  but  after  an  instant  she  laughed  and  spread  out  her 
fine  hands  in  an  impotent  gesture.  "Ah,  monsieur,"  she 
said,  "my  father  entrusted  to  your  keeping  a  clean-minded 
girl !  What  have  you  made  of  her,  Gaston  ?" 

A  strange  and  profoundly  unreasonable  happiness 
swept  through  the  Duke's  soul  as  she  spoke  his  given 
name  for  the  first  time  within  his  memory-.  Surely,  the 
deep  contralto  voice  had  lingered  over  it? — half -tenderly, 
half-caressingly,  one  might  think. 

The  Duke  put  aside  his  coffee-cup  and,  rising,  took  his 
wife's  soft  hands  in  his.  "What  have  I  made  of  her? 
I  have  made  of  her,  Helene,  the  one  object  of  all  my  de 
sires." 

Her  face  flushed.  "Mountebank !"  she  cried,  and  strug 
gled  to  free  herself;  "do  you  mistake  me,  then,  for  a 
raddle- faced  actress  in  a  barn?  Ah,  les  demoiselles  have 
formed  you,  monsieur, — they  have  formed  you  well !" 

"Pardon!"  said  the  Duke.  He  released  her  hands,  he 
swept  back  his  hair  with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  He 
turned  from  his  wife,  and  strolled  toward  a  window, 
where,  for  a  little,  he  tapped  upon  the  pane,  his  murky 


HEART  OF  GOLD  257 


countenance  twitching  oddly,  as  he  stared  into  the  quiet 
and  sunlit  street.  "Madame,"  he  began,  in  a  level  voice, 
"I  will  tell  you  the  meaning  of  the  comedy.  To  me, — 
always,  as  you  know,  a  creature  of  whims, — there  came, 
a  month  ago,  a  new  whim  which  I  thought  attractive,  un 
conventional,  promising.  It  was  to  make  love  to  my  own 
wife  rather  than  to  another  man's.  Ah,  I  grant  you,  it  is 
incredible,"  he  cried,  when  the  Duchess  raised  her  hand 
as  though  to  speak, — "incredible,  fantastic,  and  ungentle- 
manly!  So  be  it;  nevertheless,  I  have  played  out  my 
role.  I  have  been  the  model  husband ;  I  have  put  away 
wine  and — les  demoiselles ;  for  it  pleased  me,  in  my  petty 
insolence,  to  patronize,  rather  than  to  defy,  the  laws  of 
God  and  man.  Your  perfection  irritated  me,  madame ; 
it  pleased  me  to  demonstrate  how  easy  is  this  trick  of 
treating  the  world  as  the  antechamber  of  a  future  ex 
istence.  It  pleased  me  to  have  in  my  life  one  space,  how 
ever  short,  over  which  neither  the  Recording  Angel  nor 
even  you  might  draw  a  long  countenance.  It  pleased  me, 
in  effect,  to  play  out  the  comedy,  smug- faced  and  im 
maculate, — for  the  time.  I  concede  that  I  have  failed  in 
my  part.  Hiss  me  from  the  stage,  madame;  add  one 
more  insult  to  the  already  considerable  list  of  those 
affronts  which  I  have  put  upon  you ;  one  more  will 
scarcely  matter." 

She  faced  him  with  set  lips.  "So,  monsieur,  your 
boasted  comedy  amounts  only  to  this  ?" 

"I  am  not  sure  of  its  meaning,  madame.  I  think  that, 
perhaps,  the  swine,  wallowing  in  the  mire  which  they  have 
neither  strength  nor  will  to  leave,  may  yet,  at  times,  long 
— and  long  whole-heartedly — "  De  Puysange  snapped 
his  fingers.  "Peste !"  said  he,  "let  us  now  have  done  with 


258  GALLANTRY 


this  dreary  comedy!  Beyond  doubt  de  Soyecourt  has 
much  to  answer  for,  in  those  idle  words  which  were  its 
germ.  Let  us  hiss  both  collaborators,  madame." 

"De  Soyecourt!"  she  marveled,  with  a  little  start. 
"Was  it  he  who  prompted  you  to  make  love — to  me  ?" 

"Without  intention,"  pleaded  the  Duke.  "He  twitted 
me  for  my  inability,  as  your  husband,  to  gain  your  affec 
tions;  but  I  do  not  question  his  finest  sensibilities  would 
be  outraged  by  our  disastrous  revival  of  Philemon  and 
Baucis." 

"Ah — !"  said  she.  She  was  smiling  at  some  reflection 
or  other. 

There  was  a  pause.  The  Due  de  Puysange  drummed 
upon  the  window-pane;  the  Duchess,  still  faintly  smiling, 
trifled  with  the  thin  gold  chain  that  hung  about  her  neck. 
Both  knew  their  display  of  emotion  to  have  been  some 
what  unmodern,  not  entirely  a  la  mode. 

"Decidedly,"  spoke  de  Puysange,  and  turned  toward 
her  with  a  slight  grimace,  "I  am  no  longer  fit  to  play  the 
lover;  yet  a  little  while,  madame,  and  you  must  stir  my 
gruel-posset,  and  arrange  the  pillows  more  comfortably 
about  the  octogenarian." 

"Ah,  Gaston,"  she  answered,  and  in  protest  raised  her 
slender  fingers,  "let  us  have  no  more  heroics.  We  are  not 
well  fitted  for  them,  you  and  I." 

"So  it  would  appear,"  the  Due  de  Puysange  conceded, 
not  without  sulkiness. 

"Let  us  be  friends,"  she  pleaded.  "Remember,  it  was 
fifteen  years  ago  I  made  the  grave  mistake  of  marrying  a 
very  charming  man — " 

"Merci !"  cried  the  Duke. 

" — and  I  did  not  know  that  I  was  thereby  denying  my- 


HEART  OF  GOLD  259 


self  the  pleasure  of  his  acquaintance.  I  have  learned  too 
late  that  marrying  a  man  is  only  the  most  civil  way  of 
striking- him  from  one's  visiting-list."  The  Duchess  hesi 
tated.  "Frankly,  Gaston,  I  do  not  regret  the  past 
month." 

"It  has  been  adorable !"  sighed  the  Duke. 

"Yes,"  she  admitted ;  "except  those  awkward  moments 
when  you  would  insist  on  making  love  to  me." 

"But  no,  madame,"  cried  he,  "it  was  precisely — " 

"O  my  husband,  my  husband !"  she  interrupted,  with 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders ;  "why,  you  do  it  so  badly !" 

The  Due  de  Puysange  took  a  short  turn  about  the 
apartment.  "Yet  I  married  you,"  said  he,  "at  sixteen — 
out  of  a  convent !" 

"Mon  ami,"  she  murmured,  in  apology,  "am  I  not  to 
be  frank  with  you  ?  Would  you  have  only  the  connubial 
confidences  ?" 

"But  I  had  no  idea — "  he  began. 

"Why,  Gaston,  it  bored  me  to  the  very  verge  of  yawn 
ing  in  my  lover's  countenance.  I,  too,  had  no  idea  but 
that  it  would  bore  you  equally — " 

"Hein?"  said  the  Duke. 

"—to  hear  what  d'Humieres— " 

"He  squints !"  cried  the  Due  de  Puysange. 

" — or  de  Crequy — " 

"That  red-haired  ape !"  he  muttered. 

" — or  d'Arlanges,  or — or  any  of  them,  was  pleased  to 
say.  In  fact,  it  was  my  duty  to  conceal  from  my  hus 
band  anything  which  might  involve  him  in  duels.  Now 
that  we  are  friends,  of  course  it  is  entirely  different." 

The  Duchess  smiled;  the  Duke  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  with  the  contained  ferocity  of  a  caged  tiger. 


260  GALLANTRY 


"In  duels!  in  a  whole  series  of  duels!  So  these  se 
ducers  besiege  you  in  platoons.  Ma  foi,  friendship  is  a 
good  oculist!  Already  my  vision  improves." 

"Gaston !"  she  cried.  The  Duchess  rose  and  laid  both 
hands  upon  his  shoulders.  "Gaston — ?"  she  repeated. 

For  a  heart-beat  the  Due  de  Puysange  looked  into  his 
wife's  eyes;  then  he  sadly  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 
"Madame,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  do  not  doubt  you.  Ah, 
believe  me,  I  have  comprehended,  always,  that  in  your 
keeping  my  honor  was  quite  safe — far  more  safe  than 
in  mine,  as  Heaven  and  most  of  the  fiends  well  know. 
You  have  been  a  true  and  faithful  wife  to  a  worthless 
brute  who  has  not  deserved  it."  He  lifted  her  fingers  to 
his  lips.  De  Puysange  stood  very  erect ;  his  heels  clicked 
together,  and  his  voice  was  earnest.  "I  thank  you, 
madame,  and  I  pray  you  to  believe  that  I  have  never 
doubted  you.  You  are  too  perfect  to  err —  Frankly,  and 
between  friends,"  added  the  Duke,  "it  was  your  cold 
perfection  which  frightened  me.  You  are  an  icicle, 
Helene." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Ah !"  she  said,  and 
sighed  ;  "you  think  so  ?" 

"Once,  then — ?"  The  Due  de  Puysange  seated  him 
self  beside  his  wife,  and  took  her  hand. 

"I — it  was  nothing."  Her  lashes  fell,  and  dull  color 
flushed  through  her  countenance. 

"Between  friends,"  the  Duke  suggested,  "there  should 
be  no  reservations." 

"But  it  is  such  a  pitiably  inartistic  little  history!"  the 
Duchess  protested.  "Eh  bien,  if  you  must  have  it!  For 
I  was  a  girl  once, — an  innocent  girl,  as  given  as  are  most 


HEART  OF  GOLD  261 


girls  to  long  reveries  and  bright,  callow  day-dreams.  And 
there  was  a  man — " 

"There  always  is,"  said  the  Duke,  darkly. 

"Why,  he  never  even  knew,  mon  ami !"  cried  his  wife, 
and  laughed,  and  clapped  her  hands.  "He  was  much 
older  than  I ;  there  were  stories  about  him — oh,  a  great 
many  stories, — and  one  hears  even  in  a  convent — "  She 
paused  with  a  reminiscent  smile.  "And  I  used  to  won 
der  shyly  what  this  very  fearful  reprobate  might  be  like. 
I  thought  of  him  with  de  Lauzun,  and  Dom  Juan,  and 
with  the  Due  de  Grammont,  and  all  those  other  scented, 
shimmering,  magnificent  libertines  over  whom  les  in 
genues — wonder ;  only,  I  thought  of  him  more  often  than 
of  the  others,  I  made  little  prayers  for  him  to  the  Virgin, 
And  I  procured  a  tiny  miniature  of  him.  And,  when  I 
came  out  of  the  convent,  I  met  him  at  my  father's  house.1 
And  that  was  all." 

"All?"  The  Due  de  Puysange  had  raised  his  swart 
eyebrows,  and  he  slightly  smiled. 

"All,"  she  re-echoed,  firmly.  "Oh,  I  assure  you  he  was 
still  too  youthful  to  have  any  time  to  devote  to  young 
girls.  He  was  courteous — no  more.  But  I  kept  the 
picture, — ah,  girls  are  so  foolish,  Gaston !"  The  Duchess, 
with  a  light  laugh,  drew  upward  the  thin  chain  about  her 
neck.  At  its  end  was  a  little  heart-shaped  locket  of  dull 
gold,  with  a  diamond  sunk  deep  in  each  side.  She  re 
garded  the  locket  with  a  quaint  sadness.  "It  is  a  long 

1  She  was  of  the  Aigullon  family,  and  sister  to  d'Agenois,  the 
first  and  very  politic  lover  of  Madame  de  la  Tournelle,  after 
ward  mistress  to  Louis  Quinze  under  the  title  of  Duchesse  de 
Chateauroux.  The  later  relations  between  the  d'Aigullons  and 
Madame  du  Barry  are  well-known. 


262  GALLANTRY 


while  since  I  have  seen  that  miniature,  for  it  has  been 
sealed  in  here,"  said  she,  "ever  since — since  some  one 
gave  me  the  locket." 

Now  the  Due  de  Puysange  took  this  trinket,  still  tepid 
and  perfumed  from  contact  with  her  flesh.  He  turned  it 
awkwardly  in  his  hand,  his  eyes  flashing  volumes  of  won 
derment  and  inquiry.  Yet  he  did  not  appear  jealous,  nor 
excessively  unhappy.  "And  never,"  he  demanded,  some 
vital  emotion  catching  at  his  voice — "never  since  then —  ?" 

"I  never,  of  course,  approved  of  him,"  she  answered; 
and  at  this  point  de  Puysange  noted — so  near  as  he  could 
remember  for  the  first  time  in  his  existence, — the  curve 
of  her  trailing  lashes.  Why  but  his  wife  had  lovely  eye 
lashes,  lashes  so  unusual  that  he  drew  nearer  to  observe 
them  more  at  his  ease.  "Still, — I  hardly  know  how  to 
tell  you — still,  without  him  the  world  was  more  quiet,  less 
colorful ;  it  held,  appreciably,  less  to  catch  the  eye  and 
ear.  Eh,  he  had  an  air,  Gaston;  he  was  never  an  ad 
mirable  man,  but,  somehow,  he  was  invariably  the  centre 
of  the  picture." 

"And  you  have  always — always  you  have  cared  for 
him  ?"  said  the  Duke,  drawing  nearer  and  yet  more  near 
to  her. 

"Other  men,"  she  murmured,  "seem  futile  and  of  minor 
importance,  after  him."  The  lashes  lifted.  They  fell, 
promptly.  "So,  I  have  always  kept  the  heart,  mon  ami. 
And,  yes,  I  have  always  loved  him,  I  suppose." 

The  chain  had  moved  and  quivered  in  his  hand.  Was 
it  man  or  woman  who  trembled?  wondered  the  Due  de 
Puysange.  For  a  moment  he  stood  immovable,  every 
nerve  in  his  body  tense.  Surely,  it  was  she  who  trem 
bled?  It  seemed  to  him  that  this  woman,  whose  cold 


HEART  OF  GOLD  263 


perfection  had  galled  him  so  long,  now  stood  with  down 
cast  eyes,  and  blushed  and  trembled,  too,  like  any  rustic 
maiden  come  shamefaced  to  her  first  tryst. 

"Helene— !"  he  cried. 

"But  no,  my  story  is  too  dull,"  she  protested,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  disengaged  herself — half- 
fearfully,  it  seemed  to  her  husband.  "Even  more  insipid 
than  your  comedy,"  she  added,  with  a  not  unkindly  smile. 
"Do  we  drive  this  afternoon?" 

"In  effect,  yes!"  cried  the  Duke.  He  paused  and 
laughed — a  low  and  gentle  laugh,  pulsing  with  unutter 
able  content.  "Since  this  afternoon,  madame — " 

"Is  cloudless?"  she  queried. 

"Nay,  far  more  than  that,"  de  Puysange  amended; 
"it  is  refulgent" 


What  time  the  Duchess  prepared  her  person  for  the 
drive  the  Duke  walked  in  the  garden  of  the  Hotel  de 
Puysange.  Up  and  down  a  shady  avenue  of  lime-trees 
he  paced,  and  chuckled  to  himself,  and  smiled  benignantly 
upon  the  moss-incrusted  statues, — a  proceeding  that  was, 
beyond  any  reasonable  doubt,  prompted  by  his  happiness 
rather  than  by  the  artistic  merits  of  the  postured  images, 
since  they  constituted  a  formidable  and  broken-nosed  col 
lection  of  the  most  cumbrous,  the  most  incredible,  and  the 
most  hideous  instances  of  sculpture  the  family  of  Puy 
sange  had  been  able  to  accumulate  for,  as  the  phrase  is, 
love  or  money.  Amid  these  mute,  gray  travesties  of  an 
tiquity  and  the  tastes  of  his  ancestors,  the  Due  de 
Puysange  exulted. 


264  GALLANTRY 


"Ma  foi,  will  life  never  learn  to  improve  upon  the  ex 
travagancies  of  romance?  Why,  it  is  the  old  story, — 
the  hackneyed  story  of  the  husband  and  wife  who  fall  in 
love  with  each  other!  Life  is  a  very  gross  plagiarist. 
And  she — did  she  think  I  had  forgotten  how  I  gave  her 
that  little  locket  so  long  ago?  Eh,  ma  femme,  so  'some 
one' — 'some  one'  who  cannot  be  alluded  to  without  a 
pause  and  an  adorable  flush — presented  you  with  your 
locket !  Nay,  love  is  not  always  blind !" 

The  Duke  paused  before  a  puff- jawed  Triton,  who 
wallowed  in  an  arid  basin  and  uplifted  toward  heaven 
what  an  indulgent  observer  might  construe  as  a  broken 
conch-shell.  "Love!  Mon  Dieu,  how  are  the  superior 
fallen !  I  have  not  the  decency  to  conceal  even  from  my 
self  that  I  love  my  wife!  I  am  shameless,  I  had  as  lief 
proclaim  it  from  the  house-tops.  And  a  month  ago — 
tarare,  the  ignorant  beast  I  was !  Moreover,  at  that  time 
I  had  not  passed  a  month  in  her  company, — eh  bien,  I 
defy  Diogenes  and  Timon  to  come  through  such  a  testing 
with  unscratched  hearts.  I  love  her.  And  she  loves 
me!" 

He  drew  a  deep  breath,  and  he  lifted  his  comely  hands 
toward  the  pale  spring  sky,  where  the  west  wind  was 
shepherding  a  sluggish  flock  of  clouds.  "O  sun,  moon, 
and  stars !"  de  Puysange  said,  aloud ;  "I  call  you  to  wit 
ness  that  she  loves  me !  Always  she  has  loved  me !  O 
kindly  little  universe !  O  little  kings,  tricked  out  with 
garish  crowns  and  sceptres,  you  are  masters  of  your  petty 
kingdoms,  but  I  am  master  of  her  heart! 

"I  do  not  deserve  it,"  he  conceded,  to  a  dilapidated 
faun,  who,  though  his  flute  and  the  hands  that  held  it  had 
been  missing  for  over  a  quarter  of  a  century,  piped  on 


HEART  OF  GOLD  265 


with  unimpaired  and  fatuous  mirth.  "Ah,  heart  of  gold 
— demented  trinket  that  you  are,  I  have  not  merited  that 
you  should  retain  my  likeness  all  these  years!  If  I  had 
my  deserts — parbleu!  let  us  accept  such  benefits  as  the 
gods  provide,  and  not  question  the  wisdom  of  their  dis 
pensations.  What  man  of  forty-three  may  dare  to  ask 
for  his  deserts?  No,  we  prefer  instead  the  dealings  of 
blind  chance  and  all  the  gross  injustices  by  which  so 
many  of  us  escape  hanging"  .... 

VI 

"So  madame  has  visitors?  Eh  bien,  let  us,  then,  be 
hold  these  naughty  visitors,  who  would  sever  a  husband 
from  his  wife !" 

From  within  the  Red  Salon  came  a  murmur  of  speech, 
— quiet,  cordial,  colorless, — which  showed  very  plainly 
that  madame  had  visitors.  As  the  Due  de  Puysange 
reached  out  his  hand  to  draw  aside  the  portieres, 
her  voice  was  speaking,  courteously,  but  without  vital 
interest. 

" — and  afterward,"  said  she,  "weather  permitting — " 

"Ah,  Helene!"  cried  a  voice  that  the  Duke  knew  almost 
as  well,  "how  long  am  I  to  be  held  at  arm's-length  by 
these  petty  conventionalities?  Is  candor  never  to  be 
permitted  ?" 

The  half -drawn  portiere  trembled  in  the  Duke's  grasp. 
He  could  see,  from  where  he  stood,  the  inmates  of  the 
salon,  though  their  backs  were  turned.  They  were  his 
wife  and  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt.  The  Marquis  bent 
eagerly  toward  the  Duchesse  de  Puysange,  who  had  risen 
as  he  spoke. 


266  GALLANTRY 


For  a  moment  she  stayed  as  motionless  as  her  perplexed 
husband;  then,  with  a  wearied  sigh,  the  Duchess  sank 
back  into  a  fauteuil.  "You  are  at  liberty  to  speak,"  she 
said,  slowly,  and  with  averted  glance — "what  you 
choose." 

The  portiere  fell;  but  between  its  folds  the  Duke  still 
peered  into  the  room,  where  de  Soyecourt  had  drawn 
nearer  to  the  Duke's  wife.  "There  is  so  little  to  say," 
the  Marquis  murmured,  "beyond  what  my  eyes  have 
surely  revealed  a  great  while  ago — that  I  love  you." 

"Ah !"  the  Duchess  cried,  with  a  swift  intaking  of  the 
breath  which  was  almost  a  sob.  "Monsieur,  I  think  you 
forget  that  you  are  speaking  to  the  wife  of  your  kinsman 
and  your  friend." 

The  Marquis  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  which 
was  theatrical,  though  the  trouble  that  wrung  his  coun 
tenance  seemed  very  real.  He  was,  as  one  has  said,  a 
slight,  fair  man,  with  the  face  of  an  ecclesiastic  and  the 
eyes  of  an  aging  seraph.  A  dull  pang  shot  through  the 
Duke  as  he  thought  of  the  two  years'  difference  in  their 
ages,  and  of  his  own  tendency  to  embonpoint,  and  of  the 
dismal  features  which  calumniated  him.  Yonder  porce 
lain  fellow  was  in  appearance  so  incredibly  young! 

"Do  you  consider,"  said  the  Marquis,  "that  I  do  not 
know  I  act  an  abominable  part?  Honor,  friendship  and 
even  decency! — ah,  I  regret  their  sacrifice,  but  love  is 
greater  than  these  petty  things!" 

The  Duchess  sighed.  "For  my  part,"  she  returned,  "I 
think  differently.  Love  is,  doubtless,  very  wonderful 
and  beautiful,  but  I  am  sufficiently  old-fashioned  to  hold 
honor  yet  dearer.  Even — even  if  I  loved  you,  monsieur, 


HEART  OF  GOLD  267 


there  are  certain  promises,  sworn  before  the  altar,  that  I 
could  not  forget/'  She  looked  up,  candidly,  into  the 
flushed,  handsome  face  of  the  Marquis. 

"Words !"  he  cried,  with  vexed  impatiency. 

"An  oath,"  she  answered,  sadly, — "an  oath  that  I  may 
not  break." 

There  was  hunger  in  the  Marquis'  eyes,  and  his  hands 
lifted.  Their  glances  met  for  a  breathless  moment,  and 
his  eyes  were  tender,  and  her  eyes  were  resolute,  but  very, 
very  compassionate. 

"I  love  you !"  he  said.  He  said  no  more  than  this,  but 
none  could  doubt  he  spoke  the  truth. 

"Monsieur,"  the  Duchess  replied,  and  the  depths  of  her 
contralto  voice  were  shaken  like  the  sobbing  of  a  violin, 
and  her  hands  stole  upward  to  her  bosom,  and  clasped 
the  gold  heart,  as  she  spoke, — "monsieur,  ever  since  I  first 
knew  you,  many  years  ago,  at  my  father's  home,  I  have 
held  you  as  my  friend.  You  were  more  kind  to  the  girl, 
Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  than  you  have  been  to  the  wom 
an.  Yet  only  since  our  stay  in  Poictesme  yonder  have 
I  feared  for  the  result  of  our  friendship.  I  have  tried 
to  prevent  this  result.  I  have  failed."  The  Duchess 
lifted  the  gold  heart  to  her  lips,  and  her  golden  head 
bent  over  it.  "Monsieur,  before  God,  if  I  had  loved 
you  with  my  whole  being, — if  I  had  loved  you  all  these 
years, — if  the  sight  of  your  face  were  to  me  to-day  the 
one  good  thing  life  holds,  and  the  mere  sound  of  your 
voice  had  power  to  set  my  heart  to  beating — beating" — 
she  paused  for  a  little,  and  then  rose,  with  a  sharp  breath 
that  shook  her  slender  body  visibly, — "even  then,  my 
Louis,  the  answer  would  be  the  same;  and  that  is, — go!" 


268  GALLANTRY 


"Helene — !"  he  murmured ;  and  his  outstretched  hands, 
which  trembled,  groped  toward  her. 

"Let  us  have  no  misunderstanding,"  she  protested, 
more  composedly;  "you  have  my  answer." 

De  Soyecourt  did  not,  at  mildest,  lead  an  immaculate 
life.  But  by  the  passion  that  now  possessed  him  the  tiny 
man  seemed  purified  and  transfigured  beyond  masculinity. 
His  face  was  ascetic  in  its  reverence  as  he  waited  there, 
with  his  head  slightly  bowed.  "I  go,"  he  said,  at  last, 
as  if  picking  his  way  carefully  among  tumbling  words; 
then  bent  over  her  hand,  which  she  made  no  effort  to 
withdraw.  "Ah,  my  dear!"  cried  the  Marquis,  staring 
into  her  shy,  uplifted  eyes,  "I  think  I  might  have  made 
you  happy!" 

His  arm  brushed  the  elbow  of  the  Duke  as  de  Soyecourt 
left  the  salon.  The  Marquis  seemed  aware  of  nothing: 
the  misery  of  both  the  men,  as  de  Puysange  reflected,  was 
of  a  sort  to  be  disturbed  by  nothing  less  noticeable  than 
an  earthquake. 

VII 

"  'If  I  had  loved  you  all  these  years/  "  murmured  the 
Due  de  Puysange.  His  dull  gaze  wandered  toward  the 
admirable  "Herodias"  of  Giorgione  which  hung  there 
in  the  corridor :  the  strained  face  of  the  woman,  the  ac 
cented  muscles  of  her  arms,  the  purple,  bellying  cloak 
which  spread  behind  her,  the  livid  countenance  of  the 
dead  man  staring  up  from  the  salver, — all  these  he  noted, 
idly.  It  seemed  strange  that  he  should  be  appraising  a 
painting  at  this  particular  moment. 

"Well,  now  I  will  make  recompense,"  said  the  Duke. 


HEART  OF  GOLD  269 


VIII 

He  came  into  the  room,  humming  a  tune  of  the  boule 
vards;  the  crimson  hangings  swirled  about  him,  the  fur 
niture  swayed  in  aerial  and  thin-legged  minuets.  He 
sank  into  a  chair  before  the  great  mirror,  supported  by 
frail  love-gods,  who  contended  for  its  possession.  He 
viewed  therein  his  pale  and  grotesque  reflection,  and  he 
laughed  lightly.  "Pardon,  madame,"  he  said,  "but  my 
castles  in  the  air  are  tumbling  noisily  about  my  ears.  It 
is  difficult  to  think  clearly  amid  the  crashing  of  the 
battlements." 

"I  do  not  understand."  The  Duchess  had  lifted  a 
rather  grave  and  quite  incurious  face  as  he  entered  the 
salon. 

"My  life,"  laughed  the  Due  de  Puysange,  "I  assure  you 
I  am  quite  incorrigible.  I  have  just  committed  another 
abominable  action;  and  I  cry  peccavi!"  He  smote  him 
self  upon  the  breast,  and  sighed  portentously.  "I  accuse 
myself  of  eavesdropping." 

"What  is  your  meaning?"  She  had  now  risen  to  her 
feet. 

"Nay,  but  I  am  requited,"  the  Duke  reassured  her,  and 
laughed  with  discreetly  tempered  bitterness.  "Figure  to 
yourself,  madame!  I  had  planned  for  us  a  life  during 
which  our  new-born  friendship  was  always  to  endure  un 
tarnished.  Eh  bien,  man  proposes !  De  Soyecourt  is  of 
a  jealous  disposition ;  and  here  I  sit,  amid  my  fallen  air- 
castles,  like  that  tiresome  Marius  in  his  Carthaginian 
debris." 

"De  Soyecourt?"  she  echoed,  dully. 


270  GALLANTRY 


"Ah,  my  poor  child!"  said  the  Duke  and,  rising,  took 
her  hand  in  a  paternal  fashion,  "did  you  think  that,  at 
this  late  day,  the  disease  of  matrimony  was  still  incur 
able?  Nay,  we  progress,  madame.  You  shall  have 
grounds  for  a  separation — sufficient,  unimpeachable 
grounds.  You  shall  have  your  choice  of  desertion,  in 
fidelity,  cruelty  in  the  presence  of  witnesses — oh,  I  shall 
prove  a  veritable  Gilles  de  Retz !"  He  laughed,  not 
unkindlily,  at  her  bewilderment. 

"You  heard  everything?"  she  queried. 

"I  have  already  confessed,"  the  Duke  reminded  her. 
"And  speaking  as  an  unprejudiced  observer,  I  would  say 
the  little  man  really  loves  you.  So  be  it !  You  shall  have 
your  separation,  you  shall  marry  him  in  all  honor  and 
respectability;  and  if  everything  goes  well,  you  shall  be 
a  grand  duchess  one  of  these  days —  Behold  a  fact  accom 
plished!"  De  Puysange  snapped  his  fingers  and  made  a 
pirouette  ;  he  began  to  hum,  "Songez  de  bonne  a  suivre — " 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"You,  in  truth,  desire  to  restore  to  me  my  freedom?" 
she  asked,  in  wonder,  and  drew  near  to  him. 

The  Due  de  Puysange  seated  himself,  with  a  smile. 
"Mon  Dieu!"  he  protested,  "who  am  I  to  keep  lovers 
apart?  As  the  first  proof  of  our  new-sworn  friendship, 
I  hereby  offer  you  any  form  of  abuse  or  of  maltreatment 
you  may  select." 

She  drew  yet  nearer  to  him.  Afterward,  with  a  sigh 
PS  if  of  great  happiness,  her  arms  clasped  about  his  neck. 
"Mountebank!  do  you,  then,  love  me  very  much?" 

"I  ?"  The  Duke  raised  his  eyebrows.  Yet,  he  reflect 
ed,  there  was  really  no  especial  harm  in  drawing  his  cheek 


HEART  OF  GOLD  271 


a  trifle  closer  to  hers,  and  he  found  the  contact  to  be  that 
of  cool  velvet. 

"You  love  me!"  she  repeated,  softly. 

"It  pains  me  to  the  heart,"  the  Duke  apologized — "it 
pains  me,  pith  and  core,  to  be  guilty  of  this  rudeness  to 
a  lady;  but,  after  all,  honesty  is  a  proverbially  recom 
mended  virtue,  and  so  I  must  unblushingly  admit  I  do 
nothing  of  the  sort." 

"Gaston,  why  will  you  not  confess  to  your  new  friend  ? 
Have  I  not  pardoned  other  amorous  follies?"  Her 
cheeks  were  warmer  now,  and  softer  than  those  of  any 
other  woman  in  the  world. 

"Eh,  ma  mie,"  cried  the  Duke,  warningly,  "do  not  be 
unduly  elated  by  little  Louis'  avowal!  You  are  a  very- 
charming  person,  but — 'de  gustibus — '  " 

"Gaston — !"  she  murmured. 

"Ah,  what  is  one  to  do  with  such  a  woman!"  De 
Puysange  put  her  from  him,  and  he  paced  the  room  with 
quick,  unequal  strides. 

"Yes,  I  love  you  with  every  nerve  and  fibre  of  my 
body — with  every  not  unworthy  thought  and  aspiration 
of  my  misguided  soul!  There  you  have  the  ridiculous 
truth  of  it,  the  truth  which  makes  me  the  laughing-stock 
of  well  bred  persons  for  all  time.  I  adore  you.  I  love 
you,  I  cherish  you  sufficiently  to  resign  you  to  the  man 
your  heart  has  chosen.  I —  But  pardon  me," — and  he 
swept  a  white  hand  over  his  brow,  with  a  little,  choking 
laugh, — "since  I  find  this  new  emotion  somewhat  boister 
ous.  It  stifles  one  unused  to  it." 

She  faced  him,  inscrutably;  but  her  eyes  were  deep 
wells  of  gladness.  "Monsieur,"  she  said,  "yours  is  a 


272  GALLANTRY 


noble  affection.  I  will  not  palter  with  it.  I  accept  your 
offer—" 

"Madame,  you  act  with  your  usual  wisdom,"  said  the 
Duke. 

" — Upon  condition,"  she  continued, — "that  you  resume 
your  position  as  eavesdropper." 

The  Duke  obeyed  her  pointing  finger.  When  he  had 
reached  the  portieres,  the  proud,  black-visaged  man 
looked  back  into  the  salon,  wearily.  She  had  seated  her 
self  in  the  fauteuil,  where  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt  had 
bent  over  her  and  she  had  kissed  the  little  gold  locket. 
Her  back  was  turned  toward  her  husband ;  but  their  eyes 
met  in  the  great  mirror,  supported  by  frail  love-gods,  who 
contended  for  its  possession. 

"Comedy  for  comedy,"  she  murmured.  He  wondered 
what  purblind  fool  had  called  her  eyes  sea-cold? 

"I  do  not  understand,"  he  said.  "You  saw  me  all  the 
while —  Yes,  but  the  locket — ?"  cried  de  Puysange. 

"Open  it!"  she  answered,  and  her  speech,  too,  was 
breathless. 

Under  his  heel  the  Due  de  Puysange  ground  the  trinket. 
The  long,  thin  chain  clashed  and  caught  about  his  foot; 
the  face  of  his  youth  smiled  from  the  fragment  in  his 
not  quite  steady  hands.  "O  heart  of  gold !  O  heart  of 
gold !"  he  said,  with  a  strange  meditative  smile,  now  that 
his  eyes  lifted  toward  the  glad  and  glorious  eyes  of  his 
wife;  "I  am  not  worthy!  Indeed,  my  dear,  I  am  not 
worthy !" 


IX 

THE  SCAPEGOATS 

As  Played  at  Manneville,  September  18,  1750 

"Uon  a  choisi  justement  le  temps  que  je  parlois  a  mon 
traiste  de  fils.  Sortons!  Je  veux  oiler  querir  la  justice, 
et  faire  donner  la  question  a  toutc  ma  maison;  a  servantes, 
a  valets,  a  fils,  a  fille,  et  a  moi  aussi." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

PRINCE  DE  GATINAIS,  an  old  nobleman,  who  affects  yes 
terday's  fashion. 

Louis  QUILLAN,  formerly  Louis  DE  SOYECOURT,  son  to 
the  Prince,  and  newly  become  GRAND  DUKE  OF 

NOUMARIA. 

VANRINGHAM,  valet  to  the  Prince. 

NELCHEN  THORN,  daughter  to  Hans  Thorn,  landlord  ofj  A 
the  Golden  Pomegranate,  and  loves  Louis  Quillan.  |^| 

And  in  the  Proem,  DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

SCENE 

The  Dolphin  Room  of  the  Golden  Pomegranate,  an  inn  at 
Manneville-en-Poictesme. 


THE  SCAPEGOATS 
PROEM: — To  Present  Mr.  Vanringham  as  Nuntius 

HOWEVER  profoundly  the  Due  cle  Puysange  now 
approved  of  the  universe  and  of  its  manage 
ment,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  in  consequence 
he  intended  to  overlook  de  Soyecourt's  perfidy.  De  Puy 
sange  bore  his  kinsman  no  malice;  indeed,  he  was  sin 
cerely  fond  of  the  Marquis,  sympathized  with  him  at  bot 
tom,  and  heartily  regretted  that  the  excellence  of  poor 
Louis'  taste  should  be  thus  demonstrably  counterbal 
anced  by  the  frailty  of  his  friendship.  Still,  one  cannot 
entirely  disregard  the  conventions:  Louis  had  betrayed 
him,  had  before  the  eyes  of  de  Puysange  made  love  to  de 
Puysange's  wife.  A  duel  was  the  inevitable  consequence, 
though  of  course  the  Duke  did  not  intend  to  kill  poor 
Louis,  who  might  before  long  be  very  useful  to  French 
statesmanship.  So  the  Duke  sent  Ormskirk  to  arrange 
a  meeting. 

A  floridly  handsome  man  in  black  was  descending  the 
stairway  of  the  Hotel  de  Soyecourt  at  the  moment  the 
Duke  of  Ormskirk  stepped  cheerily  from  his  coach.  This 
person  saluted  the  plump  nobleman  with  due  deference, 
and  was  accorded  in  return  a  little  whistling  sound  of 
amazement. 

"Mr.  Vanringham,  as  I  live — and  in  Paris !  Man,  will 
you  hare-brainecT  Jacobites  never  have  done  with  these 
idiotic  intrigues?  Nay,  in  sincerity,  Mr.  Vanringham, 
this  is  annoying." 

275 


276  GALLANTRY 


"My  Lord  Duke,"  said  the  other,  "I  venture  to  suggest 
that  you  forget  I  dare  no  longer  meddle  with  politics,  in 
light  of  my  recent  mishap  at  Tunbridge.  Something  of 
the  truth  leaked  out,  you  comprehend — nothing  provable, 
thank  God! — but  while  I  lay  abed  Captain  Audaine  was 
calling  daily  to  inquire  when  would  my  wound  be  healed 
sufficiently  for  me  to  have  my  throat  cut.  I  found  Eng 
land  unsalubrious,  and  vanished." 

Ormskirk  nodded  his  approval.  "I  have  always  es 
teemed  your  common-sense.  Now,  let  us  consider — yes, 
I  might  use  you  here  in  Paris,  I  believe.  And  the  work 
is  light  and  safe, — a  trifle  of  sedition,  of  stirring  up  a 
street  riot  or  two." 

Vanringham  laughed.  "I  might  have  recognized  your 
hand  in  the  late  disturbances,  sir.  As  matters  stand,  I 
can  only  thank  your  Grace  and  regret  that  I  have  earlier 
secured  employment.  I've  been,  since  April,  valet  to  the 
old  Prince  de  Gatinais,  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt's  father." 

"Yet  lackeyship  smacks,  however  vaguely,  of  an  honest 
livelihood.  You  disappoint  me,  Mr.  Vanringham." 

"Nay,  believe  me,  I  yet  pilfer  a  cuff-button  or  perhaps 
a  jewel,  when  occasion  offers,  lest  any  of  my  talents  rust. 
For  we  reside  at  Beaujolais  yonder,  my  Lord  Duke, 
where  we  live  in  retirement  and  give  over  our  old  age  to 
curious  chemistries.  It  suits  me  well  enough.  I  find 
the  air  of  Beaujolais  excellent,  my  duties  none  too  ardu 
ous,  and  the  girls  of  the  country-side  neither  hideous  nor 
obdurate.  Oho,  I'm  tolerably  content  at  Beaujolais — the 
more  for  that  'tis  expedient  just  now  to  go  more  softly 
than  ever  Ahab  did  of  old." 

"Lest  your  late  associates  get  wind  of  your  where 
abouts?  In  that  I  don't  question  your  discretion,  Mr. 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  277 

Vanringham.  And  out  of  pure  friendliness  I  warn  you 
Paris  is  a  very  hotbed  of  hot-headed  Jacobites  who  would 
derive  unmerited  pleasure  from  getting  a  knife  into  your 
ribs." 

"Yet  on  an  occasion  of  such  importance — "  Vanring 
ham  began;  then  marvelled  in  reply  to  the  Duke's  look 
of  courteous  curiosity:  "You  han't  heard,  sir,  that  my 
master's  son  is  unexpectedly  become  the  next  Grand  Duke 
of  Noumaria!" 

"Zounds !"  said  his  Grace  of  Ormskirk,  all  alert,  "is  old 
Ludwig  dead  at  last?  Why,  then,  the  damned  must  be 
holding  a  notable  carnival  by  this,  in  honor  of  his  arrival. 
Hey,  but  there  was  a  merry  rascal,  a  thorough-paced — " 
He  broke  off  short.  He  laughed.  "What  the  devil,. 
man !  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  is  Ludwig's  nephew,  I  grant 
you,  on  the  maternal  side,  but  Ludwig  left  a  son.  De 
Soyecourt  remains  de  Soyecourt  so  long  as  Prince  Ru 
dolph  lives, — and  Prince  Rudolph  is  to  marry  the  Elector 
of  Badenburg's  daughter  this  autumn,  so  that  we  may 
presently  look  for  any  number  of  von  Freistadts  to  per 
petuate  the  older  branch.  Faith,  you  should  study  your 
Genealogischer  Hofkalender  more  closely,  Mr.  Van 
ringham." 

"Oh,  but  very  plainly  your  Grace  has  heard  no  word 
of  the  appalling  tragedy  that  hath  made  our  little  Louis 
a  reigning  monarch — " 

With  gusto  Francis  Vanringham  narrated  the  details 
of  Duke  Ludwig's  last  mad  freak1  which,  as  the  world 

1  In  his  Journal  Horace  Calverley  gives  a  long  and  curious  ac 
count  of  the  disastrous  masque  at  Breschau  of  which  he,  then 
on  the  Grand  Tour,  had  the  luck  to  be  an  eye-witness.  His  hints 
as  to  the  part  played  in  the  affair  by  Kaunitz  are  now,  of  course, 
largely  discredited  by  the  later  confessions  of  de  Puysange. 


273  GALLANTRY 


knows,  resulted  in  the  death  of  both  Ludwig  and  his  son, 
as  well  as  that  of  their  five  companions  in  the  escapade, — 
with  gusto,  for  in  progress  the  soul  of  the  former  actor 
warmed  to  his  subject.  But  Ormskirk  was  sensibly 
displeased. 

"Behold  what  is  termed  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish !"  said 
the  Duke,  in  meditation,  when  Vanringham  had  made  an 
end.  "Plainly,  Gaston  cannot  fight  the  rascal,  since 
Hop-o'-my-thumb  is  now,  most  vexatiously,  transformed 
into  a  quasi-Royal  Personage.  Assassination,  I  fear,  is 
out  of  the  question.  So  all  our  English  plans  will  go  to 
pot.  A  Frenchman  will  reign  in  Noumaria, — after  we 
had  not  only  bought  old  Ludwig,  but  had  paid  for  him, 
too !  Why,  I  suppose  he  gave  that  damnable  masquerade 
on  the  strength  of  having  our  money, — good  English 
money,  mark  you,  Mr.  Vanringham,  that  we  have  to 
squeeze  out  of  honest  tax-payers  to  bribe  such  rascals 
with,  only  to  have  them  cheat  us  by  cooking  themselves 
to  a  crisp!  This  is  annoying,  Mr.  Vanringham." 

"I  don't  entirely  follow  your  Grace — " 

"It  is  not  perhaps  desirable  you  should.  Yet  I  give 
you  a  key.  It  is  profoundly  to  be  deplored  that  little 
Louis  de  Soyecourt,  who  cannot  draw  a  contented  breath 
outside  of  his  beloved  Paris,  should  be  forced  to  marry 
Victoria  von  Uhm,  in  his  cousin's  place, — yes,  for  Gaston 
will  arrange  that,  of  course, — and  afterward  be  exiled  to 
a  semi-barbarous  Noumaria,  where  he  must  devote  the 
rest  of  his  existence  to  heading  processions  and  reviewing 
troops,  and  signing  proclamations  and  guzzling  beer  and 
sauerkraut.  Nay,  beyond  doubt,  Mr.  Vanringham,  this  is 
deplorable.  'Tis  an  appalling  condition  of  affairs :  it  re 
minds  me  of  Ovid  among  the  Goths,  Mr.  Vanringham !" 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  279 

"I'm  to  understand,  then — ?"  the  valet  stammered. 

"You  are  to  understand  that  I  am  more  deeply  your 
debtor  than  I  could  desire  you  to  believe ;  that  I  am  going 
to  tell  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt  all  which  I  have  told 
you,  though  I  must  reword  it  for  him  as  eloquently  as 
may  be  possible;  and  that  I  even  now  feel  myself  to  be 
Ciceronic."  The  Duke  of  Ormskirk  passed  on  with  a 
polite  nod. 

Next  day  they  gossiped  busily  at  Versailles  over  the 
sudden  disappearance  of  Louis  de  Soyecourt.  No  more 
was  heard  of  him,  for  months.  The  mystery  was  dis 
cussed,  and  by  the  wits  embroidered,  and  by  the  imag 
inative  annotated,  but  it  was  never  solved  until  the  fol 
lowing  September. 


For  it  was  in  September  that,  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  Golden  Pomegranate,  at  Manneville  in  Poictesme, 
Monsieur  Louis  Quillan  paused,  and  gave  the  contented 
little  laugh  which  had  of  late  become  habitual  with  him. 
"We  are  en  fete  to-night,  it  appears.  Has  the  King, 
then,  by  any  chance  dropped  in  to  supper  with  us, 
Nelchen?" 

Silently  the  girl  bestowed  a  provisional  pat  upon  one 
fold  of  the  white  table-cloth  and  regarded  the  result  with 
critical  approval.  All  being  in  blameless  order,  she 
moved  one  of  the  candlesticks  the  width  of  a  needle.  The 
table  was  now  garnished  to  the  last  resource  of  the  Golden 
Pomegranate:  the  napery  was  snow,  the  glassware  and 
the  cutlery  shone  with  a  frosty  glitter,  and  the  great  bowl 


280  GALLANTRY 


of  crimson  roses  afforded  the  exact  splurge  of  vainglori 
ous  color  and  glow  she  had  designed.  Accordingly,  be 
ing  now  at  leisure,  Nelchen  now  came  toward  Monsieur 
Quillan,  lifting  her  lips  to  his  precisely  as  a  child  might 
have  done. 

"Not  quite  the  King,  my  Louis.  None  the  less  I  am 
sure  that  Monseigneur  is  an  illustrious  person.  He  ar 
rived  not  two  hours  ago — "  She  told  how  Monseigneur 
had  come  in  a  coach,  very  splendid ;  even  his  lackeys  were 
resplendent.  Monseigneur  would  stay  overnight  and 
would  to-morrow  push  on  to  Beauseant.  He  had  talked 
with  her, — a  kindly  old  gentleman,  but  so  stately  that  all 
the  while  she  had  been  the  tiniest  thought  afraid  of  him. 
He  must  be  some  exalted  nobleman,  Nelchen  considered, 
— a  marquis  at  the  very  least. 

Meantime  diminutive  Louis  Quillan  had  led  her  to 
the  window-seat  beneath  the  corridor,  and  sat  holding  one 
plump  trifle  of  a  hand,  the  while  her  speech  fluttered  bird- 
like  from  this  topic  to  that;  and  he  regarded  Nelchen 
Thorn  with  an  abysmal  content.  The  fates,  he  consid 
ered,  had  been  commendably  generous  to  him. 

So  he  leaned  back  from  her  a  little,  laughing  gently, 
and  marked  what  a  quaint  and  eager  child  it  was.  He 
rejoiced  that  she  was  beautiful,  and  triumphed  still  more 
to  know  that  even  if  she  had  not  been  beautiful  it  would 
have  made  slight  difference  to  him.  The  soul  of  Nelchen 
was  enough.  Yet,  too,  it  was  desirable  this  soul  should 
be  appropriately  clad,  that  she  should  have,  for  instance, 
these  big  and  lustrous  eyes, — plaintive  eyes,  such  as  a 
hamadryad  would  conceivably  possess,  since  they  were 
beyond  doubt  the  candid  and  appraising  eyes  of  some 
woodland  creature,  and  always  seemed  to  find  the  world 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  281 

not  precisely  intimidating,  perhaps,  yet  in  the  ultimate 
a  very  curious  place  where  one  trod  gingerly.  Still,  this 
Nelchen  was  a  practical  body,  prone  to  laughter, — as  in 
nature,  any  person  would  be  whose  mouth  was  all  rotund 
and  tiny  scarlet  curves.  Why,  it  was,  to  a  dimple,  the 
mouth  which  Frangois  Boucher  bestowed  on  his  sleek 
goddesses!  Louis  Quillan  was  sorry  for  poor  Boucher 
painting  away  yonder  at  a  noisy  garish  Versailles,  where 
he  would  never  see  that  perfect  mouth  the  artist  had  so 
often  dreamed  of.  No,  not  in  the  sweet  flesh  at  least; 
lips  such  as  these  were  unknown  at  Versailles.  .  .  . 

And  but  four  months  ago  he  had  fancied  himself  to  be 
in  love  with  Helene  de  Puysange,  he  remembered;  and, 
by  and  large,  he  still  considered  Helene  a  delightful  per 
son.  Yes,  Helene  had  made  him  quite  happy  last  spring : 
and  when  they  found  she  was  with  child,  and  their  first 
plan  failed,  she  had  very  adroitly  played  out  their  com 
edy  to  win  back  Gastori  in  time  to  avoid  scandal.  Yes, 
you  could  not  but  admire  Helene,  yet,  even  so.  ... 

" — and  he  asked  me,  oh,  so  many  questions  about  you, 
Louis—" 

"About  me?"  said  Louis  Quillan,  blankly.  He  was  all 
circumspection  now. 

"About  my  lover,  you  stupid  person.  Monseigneur 
assumed,  somehow,  that  I  would  have  a  lover  or  two. 
You  perceive  that  he  at  least  is  not  a  stupid  person." 
And  Nelchen  tossed  her  head,  with  a  touch  of  the 
provocative. 

Louis  Quillan  did  what  seemed  advisable.  " — and, 
furthermore,  your  stupidity  is  no  excuse  for  rumpling 
my  hair,"  said  Nelchen,  by  and  by. 

"Then  you  should  not  pout,"  replied  Monsieur  Quillan. 


282  GALLANTRY 


"Sanity  is  entirely  too  much  to  require  of  any  man  when 
you  pout.  Besides,  your  eyes  are  so  big  and  so  bright 
they  bewilder  one.  In  common  charity  you  ought  to 
wear  spectacles,  Nelchen, — in  sheer  compassion  toward 
mankind." 

"Monseigneur,  also,  has  wonderful  eyes,  Louis.  They 
are  like  the  stars, — very  brilliant  and  cool  and  incurious, 
yet  always  looking  at  you  as  though  you  were  so  insig 
nificant  that  the  mere  fact  of  your  presuming  to  exist  at 
all  was  a  trifle  interesting." 

"Like  the  stars !"  Louis  Quillan  had  flung  back  the 
shutter.  It  was  a  tranquil  evening  in  September,  with 
no  moon  as  yet,  but  with  a  great  multitude  of  lesser  lights 
overhead.  "Incurious  like  the  stars!  They  do  dwarf 
one,  rather.  Yet  just  now  I  protest  to  you,  infinitesimal 
man  that  I  am,  I  half -believe  le  bon  Dieu  loves  us  so 
utterly  that  He  has  kindled  all  those  pretty  tapers  solely 
for  our  diversion.  He  wishes  us  to  be  happy,  Nelchen ; 
and  so  He  has  given  us  the  big,  fruitful,  sweet-smelling 
world  to  live  in,  and  our  astonishing  human  bodies  to 
live  in,  with  contented  hearts,  and  with  no  more  vain  de 
sires,  no  loneliness —  Why,  in  a  word,  He  has  given 
us  each  other.  Oh,  beyond  doubt,  He  loves  us,  my 
Nelchen!" 

For  a  long  while  the  girl  was  silent.  Presently  she 
spoke,  half-hushed,  like  one  in  the  presence  of  sanctity. 
"I  am  happy.  For  these  three  months  I  have  been  more 
happy  than  I  had  thought  was  permissible  on  earth.  And 
yet,  Louis,  you  tell  me  that  those  stars  are  worlds  per 
haps  like  ours, — think  of  it,  my  dear,  millions  and  mil 
lions  of  worlds  like  ours,  and  on  each  world  perhaps  a 
million  of  lovers  like  us !  It  is  true  that  among  them  all 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  283 

no  woman  loves  as  I  do,  for  that  would  be  impossible. 
Yet  think  of  it,  mon  ami,  how  inconsiderable  a  thing  is 
the  happiness  of  one  man  and  of  one  woman  in  this  im 
mensity  !  Why,  we  are  less  than  nothing,  you  and  I ! 
Ohe,  I  am  afraid,  hideously  afraid,  Louis, — for  we  are 
such  little  folk  and  the  universe  is  so  big.  And  always 
the  storms  go  about  it,  and  its  lightnings  thrust  at  us, 
and  the  waters  of  it  are  clutching  at  our  feet,  and  its 
laws  are  not  to  be  changed —  Oh,  it  is  big  and  cruel,  my 
dear,  and  we  are  adrift  in  it,  we  who  are  so  little!" 

He  again  put  forth  his  hand  toward  her.  "What  a 
morbid  child  it  is !"  said  Louis  Quillan.  "I  can  assure 
you  I  have  resided  in  this  same  universe  just  twice  as 
long  as  you,  and  I  find  that  upon  the  whole  the  establish 
ment  is  very  creditably  conducted.  There  arrives,  to  be 
sure,  an  occasional  tornado,  or  perhaps  an  earthquake, 
each  with  its  incidental  inconveniences.  On  the  other 
hand,  there  is  every  evening  a  lavishly  arranged  sunset, 
like  gratis  fireworks,  and  each  morning  ( I  am  credibly  in 
formed)  a  sunrise  of  which  poets  and  energetic  people 
are  pleased  to  speak  highly ;  while  every  year  spring 
comes  in,  like  a  cosmical  upholsterer,  and  refurnishes  the 
entire  place,  and  makes  us  glad  to  live.  Nay,  I  protest 
to  you,  this  is  an  excellent  world,  my  Nelchen !  and  like 
wise  I  protest  to  you  that  in  its  history  there  was  never  a 
luckier  nor  a  happier  man  than  I." 

Nelchen  considered.  "Well,"  she  generously  conceded ; 
"perhaps,  after  all,  the  stars  are  more  like  diamonds." 

Louis  Quillan  chuckled.  "And  since  when  were  you  a 
connoisseur  of  diamonds,  my  dear?" 

"Of  course  I  have  never  actually  seen  any.  I  would 
like  to,  though — yes,  Louis,  what  I  would  really  like 


284  GALLANTRY 


would  be  to  have  a  bushel ful  or  so  of  diamonds,  and 
to  marry  a  duke — only  the  duke  would  have  to  be  you, 
of  course, — and  to  go  to  Court,  and  to  have  all  the  fine 
ladies  very  jealous  of  me,  and  for  them  to  be  very  much 
in  love  with  you,  and  for  you  not  to  care  a  sou  for  them, 
of  course,  and  for  us  both  to  see  the  King."  Nelchen 
paused,  quite  out  of  breath  after  this  ambitious  career  in 
the  imaginative. 

"To  see  the  King,  indeed !"  scoffed  little  Louis  Quillan. 
"Why,  we  would  see  only  a  very  disreputable  pock 
marked  wornout  lecher  if  we  did." 

"Still,"  she  pointed  out,  "I  would  like  to  see  a  king. 
Simply  because  I  never  have  done  so  before,  you 
conceive." 

"At  times,  my  Nelchen,  you  are  effeminate.  Eve  ate 
the  apple  for  that  identical  reason.  Yet  what  you  say  is 
odd,  because — do  you  know? — I  once  had  a  friend  who 
was  by  way  of  being  a  sort  of  king." 

Nelchen  gave  a  squeal  of  delight.  "And  you  never  told 
me  about  him !  I  loathe  you." 

Louis  Quillan  did  what  seemed  advisable.  " — and, 
furthermore,  your  loathsomeness  is  no  excuse  for  rum 
pling  my  hair,"  said  Nelchen,  by  and  by. 

"But  there  is  so  little  to  tell.  His  father  had  married 
the  Grand  Duke  of  Noumaria's  daughter, — over  yonder 
between  Silesia  and  Badenburg,  you  may  remember. 
And  so  last  spring  when  the  Grand  Duke  and  the  Prince 
were  both  killed  in  that  horrible  fire,  my  friend  quite  un 
expectedly  became  a  king — oh,  king  of  a  mere  celery- 
patch,  but  still  a  sort  of  king.  Figure  to  yourself, 
Nelchen !  they  were  going  to  make  my  poor  friend  marry 
the  Elector  of  Badenburg's  daughter, — and  Victoria  von 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  285 

Uhm  has  perfection  stamped  upon  her  face  in  all  its 
odious  immaculacy, — and  force  him  to  devote  the  rest  of 
his  existence  to  heading  processions  and  reviewing  troops, 
and  signing  proclamations,  and  guzzling  beer  and  sauer 
kraut.  Why,  he  would  have  been  like  Ovid  among  the 
Goths,  my  Nelchen!" 

"But  he  could  have  worn  such  splendid  uniforms!" 
said  Nelchen.  "And  diamonds!" 

"You  mercenary  wretch!"  said  he.  Louis  Quillan 
then  did  what  seemed  advisable;  and  presently  he  added, 
"In  any  event,  the  horrified  man  ran  away." 

"That  was  silly  of  him,"  said  Nelchen  Thorn.  "But 
where  did  he  run  to?" 

Louis  Quillan  considered.  "To  Paradise,"  he  at  last 
decided.  "And  there  he  found  a  disengaged  angel,  who 
very  imprudently  lowered  herself  to  the  point  of  marrying 
him.  And  so  he  lived  happily  ever  afterward.  And  so, 
till  the  day  of  his  death,  he  preached  the  doctrine  that 
silliness  is  the  supreme  wisdom." 

"And  he  regretted  nothing?"  Nelchen  said,  after  a 
meditative  while. 

Louis  Quillan  began  to  laugh.  "Oh,  yes!  at  times  he 
profoundly  regretted  Victoria  von  Uhm." 

Then  Nelchen  gave  him  a  surprise,  for  the  girl  bent 
toward  him  and  leaned  one  hand  upon  each  shoulder. 
"Diamonds  are  not  all,  are  they,  Louis?  I  thank  you, 
dear,  for  telling  me  of  what  means  so  much  to  you.  I 
can  understand,  I  think,  because  for  a  long  while  I  have 
tried  to  know  and  care  for  everything  that  concerns  you." 

The  little  man  had  risen  to  his  feet.     "Nelchen—!" 

"Hush !"  said  Nelchen  Thorn ;  "Monseigneur  is  coming 
down  to  his  supper." 


286  GALLANTRY 


II 


It  was  a  person  of  conspicuous  appearance,  both  by 
reason  of  his  great  height  and  leanness  as  well  as  his 
extreme  age,  who  now  descended  the  straight  stairway 
leading  from  the  corridor  above.  At  Court  they  would 
have  told  you  that  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  was  a  trifle  in 
sane,  but  he  troubled  the  Court  very  little,  since  he  had 
spent  the  last  twenty  years,  with  brief  intermissions,  at 
his  chateau  near  Beaujolais,  where,  as  rumor  buzzed  it, 
he  had  fitted  out  a  laboratory,  and  had  devoted  his  old  age 
to  the  study  of  chemistry.  "Between  my  flute  and  my 
retorts,  my  bees  and  my  chocolate-creams,"  the  Prince 
was  wont  to  say,  "I  manage  to  console  myself  for  the 
humiliating  fact  that  even  Death  has  forgotten  my  ex 
istence."  For  he  had  a  child's  appetite  for  sweets,  and 
was  at  this  time  past  eighty,  though  still  well-nigh  as 
active  as  Antoine  de  Soyecourt  had  ever  been,  even  when 
— a  good  half-century  ago— he  had  served,  with  distinc 
tion,  under  Louis  Quatorze. 

To-night  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  was  all  in  steel-gray, 
of  a  metallic  lustre,  with  prodigiously  fine  ruffles  at  his 
throat  and  wrists.  You  would  have  found  something 
spectral  in  the  tall,  gaunt  old  man,  for  his  periwig  was 
heavily  powdered,  and  his  deep-wrinkled  countenance 
was  of  an  absolute  white,  save  for  the  thin,  faintly  bluish 
lips  and  the  inklike  glitter  of  his  narrowing  eyes,  as  he 
now  regarded  the  couple  waiting  hand  in  hand  before 
him,  like  children  detected  in  mischief. 

Little  Louis  Quillan  had  drawn  an  audible  breath  at 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  287 

first  sight  of  the  newcomer.  Monsieur  Quillan  did  not 
speak,  however,  but  merely  waited. 

"You  have  fattened,"  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  said,  at 
last.  "I  wish  I  could  fatten.  It  is  incredible  that  a  man 
who  eats  pounds  of  sugar  daily  should  yet  remain  a 
skeleton."  His  voice  was  guttural,  and  a  peculiar  slur 
ran  through  his  speech,  caused  by  the  loss  of  his  upper 
front  teeth  at  Ramillies. 

Louis  Quillan  came  of  a  stock  not  lightly  abashed.  "I 
have  fattened  on  a  new  diet,  monsieur, — on  happiness. 
But,  ma  foi !  I  am  discourteous.  Permit  me,  my  father, 
to  present  Mademoiselle  Nelchen  Thorn,  who  has  so  far 
honored  me  as  to  consent  to  become  my  wife.  'Nelchen, 
I  present  to  you  my  father,  the  Prince  de  Gatinais." 

"Oh — ?"  observed  Nelchen,  midway  in  her  courtesy. 

But  the  Prince  had  taken  her  ringers  and  he  kissed  them 
quite  as  though  they  had  been  the  finger-tips  of  the  all- 
powerful  Pompadour  at  Versailles  yonder.  "I  salute  the 
future  Marquise  de  Soyecourt.  You  young  people  will 
sup  with  me,  then  ?" 

"No,  monseigneur,  for  I  am  to  wait  upon  the  table," 
said  Nelchen,  "and  Father  is  at  Sigean  overnight,  having 
the  mare  shod,  and  there  is  only  Leon,  and,  oh,  thank  you 
very  much  indeed,  monseigneur,  but  I  had  much  rather 
wait  on  the  table." 

The  Prince  waved  his  hand.  "My  valet,  mademoiselle, 
is  at  your  disposal.  Vanringham !"  he  called. 

From  the  corridor  above  descended  a  tall  red-headed 
fellow  in  black.  "Monseigneur — ?" 

"Go!"  quickly  said  Louis  de  Soyecourt,  while  the 
Prince  spoke  with  his  valet, —  "go,  Nelchen,  and  make 


288  GALLANTRY 


yourself  even  more  beautiful  if  such  a  thing  be  possible. 
He  will  never  resist  you,  my  dear — ah,  no,  that  is  out 
of  nature." 

"You  will  find  more  plates  in  the  cupboard,  Monsieur 
Vanringham,"  remarked  Nelchen,  as  she  obediently 
tripped  up  the  stairway,  toward  her  room  in  the  right 
wing.  "And  the  knives  and  forks  are  in  the  second 
drawer." 

So  Vanringham  laid  two  covers  in  discreet  silence ;  then 
bowed  and  withdrew  by  the  side  door  that  led  to  the 
kitchen.  The  Prince  had  seated  himself  beside  the  open- 
fire,  where  he  yawned  and  now  looked  up  with  a  smile. 

"Well,  Louis,"  said  the  Prince  de  Gatinais — "so  Mon 
sieur  de  Puysange  and  I  have  run  you  to  earth  at  last. 
And  I  find  you  have  determined  to  defy  me,  eh  ?" 

Ill 

"I  trust  there  is  no  question  of  defiance,"  Louis  de 
Soyecourt  equably  returned.  "Yet  I  regret  you  should 
have  been  at  pains  to  follow  me,  since  I  still  claim  the 
privilege  of  living  out  my  life  in  my  own  fashion." 

"You  claim  a  right  which  never  existed,  my  little  son. 
It  is  not  demanded  of  any  man  that  he  be  happy,  whereas 
it  is  manifestly  necessary  for  a  gentleman  to  obey  his 
God,  his  King,  and  his  own  conscience  without  swerving. 
If  he  also  find  time  for  happiness,  well  and  good;  other 
wise,  he  must  be  unhappy.  But,  above  all,  he  must  in 
trepidly  play  out  his  allotted  part  in  the  good  God's 
scheme  of  things,  and  must  with  due  humbleness  rec 
ognize  that  the  happiness  or  the  unhappiness  of  any  man 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  289 

alive  is  a  trivial  consideration  as  against  the  fulfilment 
of  this  scheme." 

"You  and  Nelchen  are  much  at  one  there,"  the  Marquis 
lightly  replied ;  "yet,  for  my  part,  I  fancy  that  Providence 
is  not  particularly  interested  in  who  happens  to  be  the 
next  Grand  Duke  of  Noumaria." 

The  Prince  struck  with  his  hand  upon  the  arm  of 
his  chair.  "You  dare  to  jest!  Louis,  your  levity  is  in 
corrigible.  France  is  beaten,  discredited  among  nations, 
naked  to  her  enemies.  She  lies  here,  between  England 
and  Prussia,  as  in  a  vise.  God  summons  you,  a  French 
man,  to  reign  in  Noumaria,  and  in  addition  affords  you 
a  chance  to  marry  that  weathercock  of  Badenburg's 
daughter.  Ah,  He  never  spoke  more  clearly,  Louis. 
And  you  would  reply  with  a  shallow  jest !  Why,  Baden- 
burg  and  Noumaria  just  bridge  that  awkward  space  be 
tween  France  and  Austria.  Your  accession  would  con 
firm  the  Empress, — Gaston  de  Puysange  has  it  in  her  own 
hand,  yonder  at  Versailles!  I  tell  you  it  is  all  planned 
that  France  and  Austria  will  combine,  Louis !  Think  of 
it, — our  France  on  her  feet  again,  mistress  of  Europe, 
and  every  whit  of  it  your  doing,  Louis, — ah,  my  boy,  my 
boy,  you  cannot  refuse!" 

Thus  he  ran  on  in  a  high,  disordered  voice,  pleading, 
clutching  at  his  son  with  a  strange  new  eagerness  which 
now  possessed  the  Prince  de  Gatinais.  He  was  remem 
bering  the  France  which  he  had  known;  not  the  ignoble, 
tawdry  France  of  the  moment,  misruled  by  women,  rakes, 
confessors,  and  valets,  but  the  France  of  his  dead  Sun 
King ;  and  it  seemed  to  Louis  de  Soyecourt  that  the  mem 
ory  had  brought  back  with  it  the  youth  of  his  father  for 


290  GALLANTRY 


an  instant.  Just  for  a  heart-beat,  the  lank  man  towered 
erect,  his  cheeks  pink,  and  every  muscle  tense. 

Then  Louis  de  Soyecourt  shook  his  head.  In  Eng 
land's  interest,  as  he  now  knew,  Ormskirk  had  played 
upon  de  Soyecourt's  ignorance  and  his  love  of  pleasure, 
as  an  adept  plays  upon  the  strings  of  a  violin;  but  de 
Soyecourt  had  his  reason,  a  gigantic  reason,  for  harboring 
no  grudge  against  the  Englishman. 

"Frankly,  my  father,  I  would  not  give  up  Nelchen 
though  all  Europe  depended  upon  it.  I  am  a  coward, 
perhaps ;  but  I  have  my  chance  of  happiness,  and  I  mean 
to  take  it.  So  Cousin  Otto  is  welcome  to  the  duchy. 
I  infinitely  prefer  Nelchen." 

"Otto!  a  general  in  the  Prussian  army,  Frederick's 
property,  Frederick's  idolater!"  The  old  Prince  now 
passed  from  an  apex  of  horror  to  his  former  pleading 
tones.  "But,  then,  it  is  not  necessary  you  give  up 
Nelchen.  Ah,  no,  a  certain  latitude  is  permissible  in 
these  matters,  you  understand.  She  could  be  made  a 
countess,  a  marquise, — anything  you  choose  to  demand, 
my  Louis.  And  you  could  marry  Princess  Victoria  just 
the  same — " 

"Were  you  any  other  man,  monsieur,"  said  Louis  de 
Soyecourt,  "I  would,  of  course,  challenge  you.  As  it  is, 
I  can  only  ask  you  to  respect  my  helplessness.  It  is  very 
actual  helplessness,  sir,  for  Nelchen  has  been  bred  in  such 
uncourtly  circles  as  to  entertain  the  most  provincial  no 
tions  about  becoming  anybody's  whore." 

Now  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  sank  back  into  the  chair. 
He  seemed  incredibly  old  now.  "You  are  right,"  he 
mumbled, — "yes>  you  are  right,  Louis.  I  have  talked 
with  her.  With  her  that  would  be  impossible.  These 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  291 

bourgeois  do  not  understand  the  claims  of  noble  birth." 
The  younger  man  had  touched  him  upon  the  shoulder. 
"My  father,—"  he  began. 

"Yes,  I  am  your  father,"  said  the  other,  dully,  "and  it 
is  that  which  puzzles  me.  You  are  my  own  son,  and  yet 
you  prefer  your  happiness  to  the  welfare  of  France,  to 
the  very  preservation  of  France.  Never  in  six  centuries 
has  there  been  a  de  Soyecourt  to  do  that.  God  and  the 
King  we  served  .  .  .  six  centuries  .  .  .  and  to-day 
my  own  son  prefers  an  innkeeper's  daughter.  .  ."  His 
voice  trailed  and  slurred  like  that  of  one  speaking  in  his 
sleep,  for  he  was  an  old  man,  and  by  this  the  flare  of  his 
excitement  had  quite  burned  out,  and  weariness  clung 
about  his  senses  like  a  drug.  "I  will  go  back  to  Beaujo- 
lais  ...  to  my  retorts  and  my  bees  .  .  .  and  forget 
there  was  never  a  de  Soyecourt  in  six  centuries,  save  my 
own  son  ..." 

"My  father!"  Louis  de  Soyecourt  cried,  and  shook  him 
gently.  "Ah,  I  dare  say  you  are  right,  in  theory.  But 
in  practice  I  cannot  give  her  up.  Surely  you  understand 
— why,  they  tell  me  there  was  never  a  more  ardent  lover 
than  you.  They  tell  me —  And  you  would  actually  have 
me  relinquish  Nelchen,  even  after  you  have  seen  her! 
Yet  remember,  monsieur,  I  love  her  much  as  you  loved 
my  mother, — that  mettlesome  little  princess  whom  you 
stole  from  the  very  heart  of  her  court.1  Ah,  I  have  heard 
tales  of  you,  you  conceive.  And  Nelchen  means  as  much 
to  me  as  once  my  mother  meant  to  you,  remember —  She 
means  youth,  and  happiness,  and  a  tiny  space  of  laughter 

1  The  curious  may  find  further  details  of  the  then  Marquis  de 
Soyecourt's  abduction  of  the  Princess  Clotilda  in  the  voluminous 
pages  of  Hulot,  under  the  year  1708. 


292  GALLANTRY 


before  I,  too,  am  worm's-meat,  and  means  a  proper  ap 
preciation  of  God's  love  for  us  all,  and  means  everything 
a  man's  mind  clutches  at  when  he  wakens  from  some 
forgotten  dream  that  leaves  him  weeping  with  sheer 
adoration  of  its  beauty.  Ho,  never  was  there  a  kinder 
father  than  you,  monsieur.  You  have  spoiled  me  most 
atrociously,  I  concede ;  and  after  so  many  years  you  can 
not  in  decency  whip  about  like  this  and  deny  me  my  very 
life.  Why,  my  father  it  is  your  little  Louis  who  is  plead 
ing  with  you, — and  you  have  never  denied  me  anything ! 
See,  now,  how  I  presume  upon  your  weakness.  I  am  ac 
tually  bullying  you  into  submission — bullying  you  through 
your  love  for  me.  Eh,  we  love  greatly,  we  de  Soyecourts, 
and  give  all  for  love.  Your  own  life  attests  that,  mon 
sieur.  Now,  then,  let  us  recognize  the  fact  we  are  de 
Soyecourts,  you  and  I.  Ah,  my  father, — " 

Thus  he  babbled  on,  for  the  sudden  languor  of  the 
Prince  had  alarmed  him,  and  Louis  de  Soyecourt,  to 
afford  him  justice,  loved  his  father  with  a  heartier  in 
tensity  than  falls  to  the  portion  of  most  parents.  To 
arouse  the  semi-conscious  man  was  his  one  thought. 
And  now  he  got  his  reward,  for  the  Prince  de  Gatinais 
opened  his  keen  old  eyes,  a  trifle  dazedly,  and  drew  a 
deep  breath  which  shook  his  large  frail  body  through  and 
through. 

"Let  us  recognize  that  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and 
I,"  he  repeated,  in  a  new  voice.  "After  all,  I  cannot 
drag  you  to  Noumaria  by  the  scruff  of  your  neck  like  a 
truant  school-boy.  Yes,  let  us  recognize  the  fact  that 
we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I." 

"Heh,  in  that  event,"  said  the  Marquis,  "we  must  both 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  293 

fall  upon  our  knees  forthwith.  For  look,  my  father!" 
Nelchen  Thorn  was  midway  in  her  descent  of  the  stairs. 
She  wore  her  simple  best.  All  white  it  was,  and  yet  the 
plump  shoulders  it  displayed  were  not  put  to  shame. 
Rather  must  April  clouds  and  the  snows  of  December 
retire  abashed,  as  lamentably  inefficient  analogues,  the 
Marquis  meditated;  and  as  she  paused  starry-eyed  and 
a  thought  afraid,  it  seemed  to  him  improbable  that  even 
the  Prince  de  Gatinais  could  find  it  in  his  heart  greatly 
to  blame  his  son. 

"I  begin  to  suspect,"  said  the  Prince,  "that  I  am  Jacob 
of  old,  and  that  you  are  a  very  young  cherub  venturing 
out  of  Paradise  through  motives  of  curiosity.  Eh,  my 
dear,  let  us  see  what  entertainment  we  can  afford  you 
during  your  visit  to  earth."  He  took  her  hand  and  led 
her  to  the  table. 


IV 


Vanringham  served.  Never  was  any  one  more  blithe 
than  the  lean  Prince  de  Gatinais.  The  latest  gossip  of 
Versailles  was  delivered,  with  discreet  emendations;  he 
laughed  gayly;  and  he  ate  with  an  appetite.  There  was 
a  blight  among  the  cattle  hereabouts  ?  How  deplorable ! 
witchcraft,  beyond  doubt.  And  Louis  passed  as  a  piano- 
tuner? — because  there  were  no  pianos  in  Manneville. 
Excellent!  he  had  always  given  Louis  credit  for  a  sur 
passing  cleverness;  now  it  was  demonstrated.  In  fine, 
the  Prince  de  Gatinais  became  so  jovial  that  Nelchen  was 
quite  at  ease,  and  Louis  de  Soyecourt  became  vaguely 
alarmed.  He  knew  his  father,  and  for  the  Prince  to 


294  GALLANTRY 


yield  thus  facilely  was  incredible.  Still,  his  father  had 
seen  Nelchen,  had  talked  with  Nelchen.  .  .  . 

Now  the  Prince  rose.  "Fresh  glasses,  Vanringham," 
he  ordered;  and  then:  "I  give  you  a  toast.  Through 
desire  of  love  and  happiness,  you  young  people  have 
stolen  a  march  on  me.  Eh,  I  am  not  Sgarnarelle  of  the 
comedy!  therefore,  I  drink  cheerfully  to  love  and  hap 
piness.  I  consider  Louis  is  not  in  the  right,  but  I  know 
that  he  is  wise,  my  daughter,  as  concerns  his  soul's  health, 
in  clinging  to  you  rather  than  to  a  tinsel  crown.  Of  Fate 
I  have  demanded — like  Sgarnarelle  of  the  comedy, — 
prosaic  equity  and  common-sense ;  of  Fate  he  has  in  turn 
demanded  happiness;  and  Fate  will  at  her  convenience 
decide  between  us.  Meantime  I  drink  to  love  and  hap 
piness,  since  I,  too,  remember.  I  know  better  than  to 
argue  with  Louis,  you  observe,  my  Nelchen ;  we  de  Soye- 
courts  are  not  lightly  severed  from  any  notion  we  may 
have  taken  up.  In  consequence  I  drink  to  your  love 
and  happiness !" 

They  drank.  "To  your  love,  my  son,"  said  the  Prince 
de  Gatinais, — "to  the  true  love  of  a  de  Soyecourt."  And 
afterward  he  laughingly  drank :  "To  your  happiness, 
my  daughter, — to  your  eternal  happiness." 

Nelchen  sipped.  The  two  men  stood  with  drained 
glasses.  Now  on  a  sudden  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  groaned 
and  clutched  his  breast. 

"I  was  always  a  glutton,"  he  said,  hoarsely.  "I  should 
have  been  more  moderate — I  am  faint — " 

"Salts  are  the  best  thing  in  the  world,"  said  Nelchen, 
with  fine  readiness.  She  was  half-way  up  the  stairs. 
"A  moment,  monseigneur, — a  moment,  and  I  fetch  salts." 
Nelchen  Thorn  had  disappeared  into  her  room. 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  295 


The  Prince  sat  drumming  upon  the  table  with  his  long 
white  fingers.  He  had  waved  the  Marquis  and  Vanring- 
ham  aside.  "A  passing  weakness, — I  am  not  adamant," 
he  had  said,  half -peevishly. 

"Then  I  prescribe  another  glass  of  this  really  excellent 
wine,"  laughed  little  Louis  de  Soyecourt.  At  heart  he 
was  not  merry,  and  his  own  unreasoning  nervousness  ir 
ritated  him,  for  it  seemed  to  the  Marquis,  quite  irration 
ally,  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  cheery  room  was,  with 
out  forerunnership,  become  tense  and  expectant,  and  was 
now  quiet  with  much  the  hush  which  precedes  the  burst 
ing  of  a  thunder-storm.  And  accordingly  he  laughed. 

"I  prescribe  another  glass,  monsieur,"  said  he.  "Eh, 
that  is  the  true  panacea  for  faintness — for  every  ill. 
Come,  we  will  drink  to  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
Poictesme — nay,  I  am  too  modest, — to  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  France,  in  Europe,  in  the  whole  universe ! 
Feriam  sidera,  my  father!  and  confound  all  mealy- 
mouthed  reticence,  for  you  have  both  seen  her.  Con 
fess,  am  I  not  a  lucky  man?  Come,  Vanringham,  too, 
shall  drink.  No  glasses?  Take  Nelchen's,  then. 
Come,  you  fortunate  rascal,  you  shall  drink  to  the  bride 
from  the  bride's  half -emptied  glass.  To  the  most  beau 
tiful  woman —  Why,  what  the  devil — ?" 

Vanringham  had  blurted  out  an  odd,  unhuman  sound. 
His  extended  hand  shook  and  jerked,  as  if  in  irresolu 
tion,  and  presently  struck  the  proffered  glass  from  de 
Soyecourt's  grasp.  You  heard  the  tiny  crash,  very  audible 
in  the  stillness,  and  afterward  the  irregular  drumming  of 


296  GALLANTRY 


the  old  Prince's  finger-tips.  He  had  not  raised  his  head, 
had  not  moved. 

Louis  de  Soyecourt  came  to  him,  without  speaking, 
and  placed  one  hand  under  his  father's  chin,  and  lifted 
the  Prince's  countenance,  like  a  dead  weight,  toward  his 
own.  Thus  the  two  men  regarded  each  the  other.  Their 
silence  was  rather  horrible. 

"It  was  not  in  vain  that  I  dabbled  with  chemistry  all 
these  years,"  said  the  guttural  voice  of  the  Prince  de 
Gatinais.  "Yes,  the  child  is  dead  by  this.  Let  us  rec 
ognize  the  fact  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I." 

But  Louis  de  Soyecourt  had  flung  aside  the  passive, 
wrinkled  face,  and  then,  with  a  straining  gesture,  wiped 
the  fingers  that  had  touched  it  upon  the  sleeve  of  his  left 
arm.  He  turned  to  the  stairway.  His  hand  grasped  the 
newelpost  and  gripped  it  so  firmly  that  he  seemed  less  to 
walk  than  by  one  despairing  effort  to  lift  an  inert  body 
to  the  first  step.  He  ascended  slowly,  with  a  queer 
shamble,  and  disappeared  into  Nelchen's  room. 

VI 

"What  next,  monseigneur  ?"  said  Vanringham,  half- 
whispering. 

"Why,  next,"  said  the  Prince  de  Gatinais,  "I  imagine 
that  he  will  kill  us  both.  Meantime,  as  Louis  says,  the 
wine  is  really  excellent.  So  you  may  refill  my  glass,  my 
man,  and  restore  to  me  my  vial  of  little  tablets".  .  .  . 

He  was  selecting  a  bonbon  from  the  comfit-dish  when 
his  son  returned  into  the  apartment.  Very  tenderly 
Louis  de  Soyecourt  laid  his  burden  upon  a  settle,  and 
then  drew  the  older  man  toward  it. 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  297 

You  noted  first  how  the  thing  lacked  weight :  a  flower 
snapped  from  its  stalk  could  hardly  have  seemed  more 
fragile.  The  loosened  hair  strained  toward  the  floor  and 
seemed  to  have  sucked  all  color  from  the  thing  to  inform 
that  thick  hair's  insolent  glory ;  the  tint  of  Nelchen's  lips 
was  less  sprightly,  and  for  the  splendor  of  her  eyes  Death 
had  substituted  a  conscientious  copy  in  crayons:  other 
wise  there  was  no  change;  otherwise  she  seemed  to  lie 
there  and  muse  on  something  remote  and  curious,  yet 
quite  as  she  would  have  wished  it  to  be. 

"See,  my  father,"  Louis  de  Soyecourt  said,  "she  was 
only  a  child,  more  little  even  than  I.  Never  in  her  brief 
life  had  she  wronged  any  one, — never,  I  believe,  had  she 
known  an  unkind  thought.  Always  she  laughed,  you 
understand —  Oh,  my  father,  is  it  not  pitiable  that  Nelchen 
will  never  laugh  any  more?" 

"I  entreat  of  God  to  have  mercy  upon  her  soul,"  said 
the  old  Prince  de  Gatinais.  "I  entreat  of  God  that  the 
soul  of  her  murderer  may  dwell  eternally  in  the  nether 
most  pit  of  hell." 

"I  would  cry  amen,"  Louis  de  Soyecourt  said,  "if  I 
could  any  longer  believe  in  God." 

The  Prince  turned  toward  him.  "And  will  you  kill 
me  now,  Louis?" 

"I  cannot,"  said  the  other.  "Is  it  not  an  excellent 
jest  that  I  should  be  your  son  and  still  be  human?  Yet 
as  for  your  instrument,  your  cunning  butler —  Come, 
Vanringham!"  he  barked.  "We  are  unarmed.  Come, 
tall  man,  for  I  who  am  well-nigh  a  dwarf  now  mean  to 
kill  you  with  my  naked  hands." 

"Vanringham!"  The  Prince  leaped  forward.  "Behind 
me,  Vanringham!"  As  the  valet  ran  to  him  the  old 


298  GALLANTRY 


Prince  de  Gatinais  caught  a  knife  from  the  table  and 
buried  it  to  the  handle  in  Vanringham's  breast.  The 
lackey  coughed,  choked,  clutched  his  assassin  by  each 
shoulder ;  thus  he  stood  with  a  bewildered  face,  shudder 
ing  visibly,  every  muscle  twitching.  Suddenly  he 
shrieked,  with  an  odd,  gurgling  noise,  and  his  grip  re 
laxed,  and  Francis  Vanringham  seemed  to  crumple 
among  his  garments,  so  that  he  shrank  rather  than  fell 
to  the  floor.  His  hands  stretched  forward,  his  fingers 
spreading  and  for  a  moment  writhing  in  agony,  and  then 
he  lay  quite  still. 

"You  progress,  my  father,"  said  Louis  de  Soyecourt, 
quietly.  "And  what  new  infamy  may  I  now  look  for?" 

"A  valet !"  said  the  Prince.  "You  would  have  fought 
with  him1 — a  valet !  He  topped  you  by  six  inches.  And 
the  man  was  desperate.  Your  life  was  in  danger.  And 
your  life  is  valuable." 

"I  have  earlier  perceived,  my  father,  that  you  prize 
human  life  very  highly." 

The  Prince  de  Gatinais  struck  sharply  upon  the  table. 
"I  prize  the  welfare  of  France.  To  secure  this  it  is 
necessary  that  you  and  no  other  reign  in  Noumarja.  But 
for  the  girl  you  would  have  yielded  just  now.  So  to  the 
welfare  of  France  I  sacrifice  the  knave  at  my  feet,  the 
child  yonder,  and  my  own  soul.  Let  us  remember  that 
we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I." 

"Rather  I  see  in  you,"  began  the  younger  man,  "a 
fiend.  I  see  in  you  a  far  ignobler  Judas — " 

"And  I  see  in  you  the  savior  of  France.  Nay,  let  us 
remember  that  we  are  de  Soyecourts,  you  and  I.  And 
for  six  centuries  it  has  always  been  our  first  duty  to  serve 
France.  You  behold  only  a  man  and  a  woman  assassi- 


THE  SCAPEGOATS  299 

nated ;  I  behold  thousands  of  men  preserved  from  death, 
many  thousands  of  women  rescued  from  hunger  and  deg 
radation.  I  have  sinned,  and  grievously ;  ages  of  torment 
may  not  purge  my  infamy ;  yet  I  swear  it  is  well  done !" 

"And  I—?"  the  little  Marquis  said. 

"Why,  your  heart  is  slain,  my  son,  for  you  loved  this 
girl  as  I  loved  your  mother,  and  now  you  can  nevermore 
quite  believe  in  the  love  God  bears  for  us  all;  and  my 
soul  is  damned  irretrievably :  but  we  are  de  Soyecourts, 
you  and  I,  and  accordingly  we  rejoice  and  drink  to 
France,  to  the  true  love  of  a  de  Soyecourt !  to  France 
preserved !  to  France  still  mighty  among  her  peers !" 

Louis  de  Soyecourt  stood  quite  motionless.  Only  his 
eyes  roved  toward  his  father,  then  to  the  body  that  had 
been  Nelchen's.  He  began  to  laugh  as  he  caught  up 
his  glass.  "You  have  conquered.  What  else  have  I  to 
live  for  now  ?  To  France,  you  devil !" 

"To  France,  my  son !"  The  glasses  clinked.  "To  the 
true  love  of  a  de  Soyecourt!" 

And  immediately  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  fell  at  his  son's 
feet.  "You  will  go  into  Noumaria?" 

"What  does  that  matter  now?"  the  other  wearily  said. 
"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  Get  up,  you  devil!" 

But  the  Prince  de  Gatinais  detained  him,  with  hands 
like  ice.  "Then  we  preserve  France,  you  and  I !  We 
are  both  damned,  I  think,  but  it  is  worth  while,  Louis. 
In  hell  we  may  remember  that  it  was  well  worth  while. 
I  have  slain  your  very  soul,  my  dear  son,  but  that  does 
not  matter:  France  is  saved."  The  old  man  still  knelt, 
looking  upward.  "Yes,  and  you  must  forgive  me,  my 
son !  For,  see,  I  yield  you  what  reparation  I  may.  See, 
Louis, — I  was  chemist  enough  for  two.  Wine  of  my  own 


300  GALLANTRY 


vintage  I  have  tasted,  of  the  brave  vintage  which  now 
revives  all  France.  And  I  swear  to  you  the  child  did  not 
suffer,  Louis,  not — not  much.  See,  Louis!  she  did  not 
suffer."  A  convulsion  tore  at  and  shook  the  aged  body, 
and  twitched  awry  the  mouth  that  had  smiled  so  reso 
lutely.  Thus  the  Prince  died. 

Presently  Louis  de  Soyecourt  knelt  and  caught  up  the 
wrinkled  face  between  both  hands.  "My  father — !"  said 
Louis  de  Soyecourt.  Afterward  he  kissed  the  dead  lips 
tenderly.  "Teach  me  how  to  live,  my  father,"  said  Louis 
de  Soyecourt,  "for  I  begin  to  comprehend — in  part  I  com 
prehend."  Throughout  the  moment  Nelchen  Thorn  was 
forgotten :  and  to  himself  he  too  seemed  to  be  fashioned 
of  heroic  stuff. 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE 
As  Played  at  Breschau,  May  j,  7755 

"Venez,  belle,  venes, 

Qu'on  ne  sgauroit  tenir,  et  qui  vous  mutinez. 
Void  vostre  galand!  a  moi  pour  recommence 
Vous  powuez  faire  une  humble  et  douce  reverence! 
Adieu,  Fevenernent  trompe  un  peu  mes  souhaits; 
Ma/is  tous  les  anwureux  ne  sont  pas  SQtisfaitS." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

GRAND  DUKE  OF  NOUMARIA,  formerly  Louis  DE 
SOYECOURT,  tormented  beyond  measure  with  the  im 
pertinences  of  life. 

COMTE  DE  CHATEAUROUX,  cousin  to  the  Grand  Duchess, 
and  complies  with  circumstance. 

A  COACHMAN  and  two  FOOTMEN. 

GRAND  DUCHESS  OF  NOUMARIA,  a  capable  woman. 
BARONESS  VON  ALTENBURG,  a  coquette. 

SCENE 
The  Palace  Gardens  at  Breschau. 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE 

PROEM:— In  Default  of  the  Hornpipe  Customary  to  a  Lengthy 
Interval  between  Acts 

LOUIS  DE  SOYECOURT  fulfilled  the  promise  made 
to  the  old  Prince  de  Gatinais,  so  that  presently 
went  about  Breschau,  hailed  by  more  or  less  en 
thusiastic  plaudits,  a  fair  and  blue-eyed,  fat  little  man, 
who  smiled  mechanically  upon  the  multitude,  and  looked 
after  the  interests  of  France  wearily,  and  (without  much 
more  ardor)  gave  over  the  remainder  of  his  time  to 
outrivalling  his  predecessor,  unvenerable  Ludwig  von 
Freistadt,  who  until  now  had  borne,  among  the  eighteen 
grand  dukes  (largely  of  quite  grand-ducal  morals)  that 
had  earlier  governed  in  Noumaria,  the  palm  for  indolence 
and  dissipation. 

At  moments,  perhaps,  the  Grand  Duke  recollected  the 
Louis  Quillan  who  had  spent  three  months  in  Manneville, 
but  only,  I  think,  as  one  recalls  some  pleasurable  ac 
quaintance;  Quillan  had  little  resembled  the  Marquis  de 
Soyecourt,  rake,  tippler  and  exquisite  of  Versailles,  and 
in  the  Grand  Duke  you  would  have  found  even  less  of 
Nelchen  Thorn's  betrothed.  He  was  quite  dead,  was 
Quillan,  for  the  man  that  Nelchen  loved  had  died  within 
the  moment  of  Nelchen's  death.  He,  the  poor  children ! 
his  Highness  meditated.  Dead,  both  of  them,  both  mur 
dered  four  years  since,  slain  in  Poictesme  yonder.  .  .  . 
Eh  bien,  it  was  not  necessary  to  engender  melancholy. 

303 


304  GALLANTRY 


So  his  Highness  amused  himself, — not  very  heartily, 
but  at  least  to  the  last  resource  of  a  flippant  and  un- 
prudish  age.  Meantime  his  grumbling  subjects  bored 
him,  his  duties  bored  him,  his  wife  bored  him,  his  mis 
tresses  bored  him  after  the  first  night  or  two,  and,  above 
all,  he  most  hideously  bored  himself.  But  I  spare  you  a 
chronique  scandaleuse  of  Duke  Louis'  reign  and  come 
hastily  to  its  termination,  as  more  pertinent  to  the  matter 
I  have  now  in  hand. 

Suffice  it,  then,  that  he  ruled  in  Noumaria  five  years; 
that  he  did  what  was  requisite  by  begetting  children  in 
lawful  matrimony,  and  what  was  expected  of  him  by 
begetting  some  others  otherwise;  and  that  he  stoutened 
daily,  and  by  and  by  decided  that  the  young  Baroness 
von  Altenburg — not  excepting  even  her  lovely  and  mul 
tifarious  precursors, — was  beyond  doubt  possessed  of  the 
brightest  eyes  in  all  history.  Therefore  did  his  Highness 
lay  before  the  owner  of  these  eyes  a  certain  project,  upon 
which  the  Baroness  was  in  season  moved  to  comment. 


"The  idea,"  said  the  Baroness,  "is  preposterous!" 
"Admirably  put!"  cried  the  Grand  Duke.     "We  will 
execute  it,  then,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

" — and,  besides,  one  could  take  only  a  portmanteau — " 
"And  the  capacity  of  a  portmanteau  is  limited,"  his 
Highness  agreed.  "Nay,  I  can  assure  you,  after  I  had 
packed  my  coronet  this  evening  there  was  hardly  room 
for  a  change  of  linen.  And  I  found  it  necessary  to 
choose  between  the  sceptre  and  a  tooth-brush." 

"Ah,  Highness,"  signed  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg, 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  305 

"will  you  never  be  serious  ?  You  plan  to  throw  away  a 
duchy,  and  in  the  act  you  jest  like  a  school-boy." 

"Ma  foil"  retorted  the  Grand  Duke,  and  looked  out 
upon  the  moonlit  gardens ;  "as  a  loyal  Noumarian,  should 
I  not  rejoice  at  the  good- fortune  which  is  about  to  befall 
my  country?  Nay,  Amalia,  morality  demands  my  abdi 
cation,"  he  added,  virtuously,  "and  for  this  once  morality 
and  I  are  in  complete  accord." 

The  Baroness  von  Altenburg  was  not  disposed  to  argue 
the  singularity  of  any  such  agreement,  the  while  that  she 
considered  Louis  de  Soyecourt's  latest  scheme. 

He  had,  as  prologue  to  its  elucidation,  conducted  the 
Baroness  into  the  summer-house  that  his  grandfather, 
good  Duke  Augustus,  erected  in  the  Gardens  of  Breschau, 
close  to  the  Fountain  of  the  Naiads,  and  had  en  tete-a 
tete  explained  his  notion.  There  were  post-horses  in 
Noumaria ;  there  was  also  an  unobstructed  road  that  led 
you  to  Vienna,  and  thence  to  the  world  outside;  and  he 
proposed,  in  short,  to  quiet  the  grumbling  of  the  discon 
tented  Noumarians  by  a  second,  and  this  time  a  final, 
vanishment  from  office  and  the  general  eye.  He  sub 
mitted  that  the  Baroness,  as  a  patriot,  could  not  fail  to 
weigh  the  inestimable  benefit  which  would  thus  accrue  to 
her  native  land. 

Yet  he  stipulated  that  his  exit  from  public  life  should 
be  made  in  company  with  the  latest  lady  on  whom  he  had 
bestowed  his  variable  affections ;  and  remembering  this 
proviso,  the  Baroness,  without  exactly  encouraging  or 
disencouraging  his  scheme,  was  at  least  not  prone  to  in 
sist  on  coupling  him  with  morality. 

She  contented  herself  with  a  truism.  "Indeed,  your 
Highness,  the  example  you  set  your  subjects  is  atrocious." 


306  GALLANTRY 


<4And  yet  they  complain!"  said  the  Grand  Duke, — 
"though  I  swear  to  you  I  have  always  done  the  things  I 
ought  not  to  have  done,  and  have  left  unread  the  papers 
I  have  signed.  What  more,  in  reason,  can  one  ask  of  a 
grand  duke?" 

"You  are  indolent — "  remonstrated  the  lady. 

"You — since  we  attempt  the  descriptive,"  said  his 
Highness, — "are  adorable." 

" — and  that  injures  your  popularity — " 

"Which,  by  the  way,  vanished  with  my  waist." 

" — and  moreover  you  create  scandals — " 

"  'The  woman  tempted  me/  "  quoted  the  Grand  Duke ; 
and  added,  reflectively,  "Amalia,  it  is  very  singular — " 

"Nay,  I  am  afraid,"  the  Baroness  lamented,  "it  is 
rather  notoriously  plural." 

But  the  Grand  Duke  waved  a  dignified  dissent,  and 
continued,  " — that  I  could  never  resist  green  eyes  of  a 
peculiar  shade." 

The  Baroness,  becoming  vastly  interested  in  the  struc 
ture  of  her  fan,  went  on,  with  some  severity,  "Your  rep 
utation — " 

"De  mortuis — "  pleaded  the  Grand  Duke. 

" — is  bad;  and  you  go  from  bad  to  worse." 

"By  no  means,"  said  his  Highness,  "since  when  I  was 
nineteen — " 

"I  will  not  believe  it  even  of  you!"  cried  the  Baroness 
von  Altenburg. 

"I  assure  you,"  his  Highness  protested,  gravely,  "1 
was  then  a  devil  of  a  fellow !  She  was  only  twenty,  and 
she,  too,  had  big  green  eyes — " 

"And  by  this  late  period,"  said  the  lady,  "has  in  addi 
tion  an  infinity  of  grandchildren." 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  307 

"I  happen  to  be  barely  forty!"  the  Grand  Duke  said, 
with  dignity. 

"In  which  event  the  Almanachen  dating,  say,  from 
1710—" 

"Are  not  unmarred  by  an  occasional  misprint.  Truly 
I  lament  the  ways  of  all  typographers,  and  I  will  explain 
the  cause  of  their  depravity,  in  Vienna." 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  Vienna." 

"  'And  Sapphira/ "  murmured  his  Highness,  "  'fell 
down  straightway  at  his  feet,  and  yielded  up  the  ghost!' 
So  beware,  Amalia!" 

"I  am  not  afraid,  your  Highness, — " 

"Nor  in  effect  am,  I.  Then  we  will  let  Europe  frown 
and  journalists  moralize,  while  we  two  gallop  forward  on 
the  road  that  leads  to  Vienna  and  heaven?" 

"Or — "  the  Baroness  helpfully  suggested. 

"There  is  in  this  case  no  possible  'or.'  Once  out  of 
Noumaria,  we  leave  all  things  behind  save  happiness." 

"Among  these  trifles,  your  Highness,  is  a  duchy." 

"Hein?"  said  the  Grand  Duke;  "what  is  it?  A  mere 
dot  on  the  map,  a  pawn  in  the  game  of  politics.  I  give 
up  the  pawn  and  take — the  queen." 

"That  is  unwise,"  said  the  Baroness,  with  composure, 
"and,  besides,  you  are  hurting  my  hand.  Apropos  of  the 
queen — the  Grand  Duchess — " 

"Will  heartily  thank  God  for  her  deliverance.  She 
will  renounce  me  before  the  world,  and  in  secret  almost 
worship  me  for  my  consideration." 

"Yet  a  true  woman,"  said  the  Baroness,  oracularly, 
"will  follow  a  husband—" 

"Till  his  wife  makes  her  stop,"  said  the  little  Grand 
Duke,  his  tone  implying  that  he  knew  whereof  he  spoke. 


308  GALLANTRY 


" — and  if  the  Grand  Duchess  loved  you — " 

"Oh,  I  think  she  would  never  mention  it,"  said  the 
Grand  Duke,  revolving  in  his  mind  this  novel  idea.  "She 
has  a  great  regard  for  appearances." 

"Nevertheless—" 

"She  will  be  Regent"  —and  the  Grand  Duke  chuckled. 
"I  can  see  her  now, — St.  Elizabeth,  with  a  dash  of  Boa- 
dicea.  Noumaria  will  be  a  pantheon  of  the  virtues,  and 
my  children  will  be  reared  on  moral  aphorisms  and  ra 
tional  food,  with  me  as  a  handy  example  of  everything 
they  should  avoid.  Deuce  take  it,  Amalia,"  he  added,  "a 
father  must  in  common  decency  furnish  an  example  to 
his  children !" 

"Pray,"  asked  the  Baroness,  "do  you  owe  it  to  your 
children,  then,  to  take  this  trip  to  Vienna — " 

"Ma  foi !"  retorted  the  Grand  Duke,  "I  owe  that  to 
myself." 

" — and  thereby  break  the  Grand  Duchess'  heart?" 

"Indeed,"  observed  his  Highness,  "you  appear  strange 
ly  deep  in  the  confidence  of  my  wife." 

Again  the  Baroness  descended  to  aphorism.  "All 
women  are  alike,  your  Highness." 

"Ah,  ah!  Well,  I  have  heard,"  said  the  Grand  Duke, 
"that  seven  devils  were  cast  out  of  Magdalene — " 

"Which  means—?" 

"I  have  never  heard  of  this  being  done  to  any  other 
woman.  Accordingly  I  deduce  that  in  all  other  women 
must  remain — " 

"Beware,  your  Highness,  of  the  crudeness  of  cyn 
icism  !" 

"I  age,"  complained  the  Grand  Duke,  "and  one  reaches 
years  of  indiscretion  so  early  in  the  forties." 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  309 

"You  admit,  then,  discretion  is  desirable?" 

"I  admit  that,"  his  Highness  said,  with  firmness,  "of 
you  alone." 

"Am  I,  in  truth,"  queried  the  Baroness,  "desirable?" 
And  in  this  patch  of  moonlight  she  looked  incredibly  so. 

"More  than  that,"  said  the  Grand  Duke— "you  are 
dangerous.  You  are  a  menace  to  the  peace  of  my  Court. 
The  young  men  make  sonnets  to  your  eyes,  and  the  ladies 
are  ready  to  tear  them  out.  You  corrupt  us,  one  and  all. 
There  is  de  Chateauroux  now — " 

"I  assure  you,"  protested  the  Baroness,  "Monsieur  de 
Chateauroux  is  not  the  sort  of  person — " 

"But  at  twenty-five,"  the  Grand  Duke  interrupted,  "one 
is  invariably  that  sort  of  person." 

"Phrases,  your  Highness!" 

"Phrases  or  not,  it  is  decided.  You  shall  make  no  more 
bad  poets." 

"You  will,"  said  the  Baroness,  "put  me  to  a  vast  ex 
pense  for  curl-papers." 

"You  shall  ensnare  no  more  admirers." 

"My  milliner  will  be  inconsolable." 

"In  short,  you  must  leave  Noumaria — " 

"You  condemn  me  to  an  exile's  life  of  misery !" 

"Well,  then,  since  misery  loves  company,  I  will  go  with 
you.  For  we  should  never  forget,"  his  Highness  added, 
with  considerable  kindliness,  "always  to  temper  justice 
with  mercy.  So  I  have  ordered  a  carriage  to  be  ready  at 
dawn." 

The  Baroness  reflected;  the  plump  little  Grand1  Duke 
smiled.  And  he  had  reason,  for  there  was  about  this 
slim  white  woman — whose  eyes  were  colossal  emeralds, 
and  in  show  equivalently  heatless,  if  not  in  effect, — so 


310  GALLANTRY 


much  of  the  baroque  that  in  meditation  she  appeared  some 
prentice  queen  of  Faery  dubious  as  to  her  incantations. 
Now,  though,  she  had  it — the  mislaid  abracadabra. 

"I  knew  that  I  had  some  obstacle  in  mind — Thou  shalt 
not  commit  adultery.  No,  your  Highness,  I  will  not 

go." 

"Remember  Sapphira,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "recall 
Herodias  who  fared  happily  in  all  things,  and  by  no 
means  forget  the  portmanteau." 

"I  have  not  the  least  intention  of  going — "  the  Baroness 
iterated,  firmly. 

"Nor  would  I  ever  suspect  you  of  harboring  such  a 
thought.  Still,  a  portmanteau,  in  case  of  an  emer 
gency — " 

"—although—" 

"Why,  exactly/' 

" — although  I  am  told  the  sunrise  is  very  beautiful 
from  the  Gardens  of  Breschau." 

"It  is  well  worth  seeing,"  agreed  the  Grand  Duke? 
"on  certain  days — particularly  on  Thursdays.  The  gar 
deners  make  a  specialty  of  them  on  Thursdays." 

"By  a  curious  chance,"  the  Baroness  murmured,  "this 
is  Wednesday." 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "now  you  mention  it, 
I  believe  it  is." 

"And  I  shall  be  here,  on  your  Highness'  recommenda 
tion,  to  see  the  sunrise — " 

"Of  course,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "to  see  the  sunrise, 
— but  with  a  portmanteau!" 

The  Baroness  was  silent. 

"With   a  portmanteau,"   entreated   the   Grand   Duke. 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  311 

"I  am  a  connoisseur  of  portmanteaux.  Say  that  I  may 
see  yours,  Amalia." 

The  Baroness  was  silent. 

"Say  yes,  Amalia.  For  to  the  student  of  etymology 
the  very  word  portmanteau — " 

The  Baroness  bent  toward  him  and  said : 

"I  am  sorry  to  inform  your  Highness  that  there  is 
some  one  at  the  door  of  the  summer-house." 

II 

Inasmuch  as  all  Noumaria  knew  that  its  little  Grand 
Duke,  once  closeted  with  the  lady  whom  he  delighted  to 
honor,  did  not  love  intrusions,  and  inasmuch  as  a  discreet 
Court  had  learned,  long  ago,  to  regard  the  summer-house 
as  consecrate  to  his  Highness  and  the  Baroness  von  Alten- 
burg, — for  these  reasons  the  Grand  Duke  was  inclined 
to  resent  disturbance  of  his  privacy  when  he  first  peered 
out  into  the  gardens. 

His  countenance  was  less  severe  when  he  turned  again 
toward  the  Baroness,  and  it  smacked  more  of  bewilder 
ment 

"It  is  only  my  wife,"  he  said. 

"And  the  Comte  de  Chateauroux,"  said  the  Baroness. 

There  is  no  denying  that  their  voices  were  somewhat 
lowered.  The  chill  and  frail  beauty  of  the  Grand  Duch 
ess  was  plainly  visible  from  where  they  sat;  to  every 
sense  a  woman  of  snow,  his  Highness  mentally  decided, 
for  her  gown  this  evening  was  white  and  the  black  hair 
powdered ;  all  white  she  was,  a  cloud-tatter  in  the  moon 
light:  yet  with  the  Comte  de  Chateauroux  as  a  foil,  his 


312  GALLANTRY 


uniform  of  the  Cuirassiers  a  big  stir  of  glitter  and  color, 
she  made  an  undeniably  handsome  picture;  and  it  was, 
quite  possibly,  the  Grand  Duke's  aesthetic  taste  which 
held  him  for  the  moment  motionless. 

"After  all — "  he  began,  and  rose. 

"I  am  afraid  that  her  Highness — "  the  Baroness  like 
wise  commenced. 

"She  would  be  sure  to,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  and 
thereupon  he  sat  down. 

"I  do  not,  however,"  said  the  Baroness,  "approve  of 
eavesdropping." 

"Oh,  if  you  put  it  that  way — "  agreed  the  Grand  Duke, 
and  he  was  rising  once  more,  when  the  voice  of  de 
Chateauroux  stopped  him. 

"No,  not  at  any  cost!"  de  Chateauroux  was  saying; 
"I  cannot  and  I  will  not  give  you  up,  Victoria!" 

" — though  I  have  heard,"  said  his  Highness,  "that  the 
moonlight  is  bad  for  the  eyes."  Saying  this,  he  seated 
himself  composedly  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  summer- 
house. 

"This  is  madness!"  the  Grand  Duchess  said — "sheer 
madness." 

"Madness,  if  you  will,"  de  Chateauroux  persisted,  "yet 
it  is  a  madness  too  powerful  and  sweet  to  be  withstood. 
Listen,  Victoria," — and  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the 
palace,  whence  music,  softened  by  the  distance,  came  from 
the  lighted  windows, — "do  you  not  remember?  They 
used  to  play  that  air  at  Staarberg." 

The  Grand  Duchess  had  averted  her  gaze  from  him. 
She  did  not  speak. 

He  continued:  "Those  were  contented  days,  were 
they  not,  when  we  were  boy  and  girl  together?  I  have 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  313 

danced  to  that  old-world  tune  so  many  times — with  you ! 
And  to-night,  madame,  it  recalls  a  host  of  unforgettable 
things,  for  it  brings  back  to  memory  the  scent  of  that 
girl's  hair,  the  soft  cheek  that  sometimes  brushed  mine, 
the  white  shoulders  which  I  so  often  had  hungered  to 
kiss,  before  I  dared — " 

"Hein?"  muttered  the  Grand  Duke. 

"We  are  no  longer  boy  and  girl,"  the  Grand  Duchess 
said.  "All  that  lies  behind  us.  It  was  a  dream — a  fool 
ish  dream  which  we  must  forget." 

"Can  you  in  truth  forget?"  de  Chateauroux  demanded, 
— "can  you  forget  it  all,  Victoria? — forget  that  night  at 
Gnestadt,  when  you  confessed  you  loved  me  ?  forget  that 
day  at  Staarberg,  when  we  were  lost  in  the  palace  gar 
dens?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  what  a  queer  method!"  murmured  the 
Grand  Duke.  "The  man  makes  love  by  the  almanac." 

"Nay,  dearest  woman  in  the  world,"  de  Chateauroux 
went  on,  "you  loved  me  once,  and  that  you  cannot  have 
quite  forgotten.  We  were  happy  then — very  incredibly 
happy, — and  now — " 

"Life,"  said  the  Grand  Duchess,  "cannot  always  be 
happy." 

"Ah,  no,  my  dear!  nor  is  it  to  be  elated  by  truisms. 
But  what  a  life  is  this  of  mine, — a  life  of  dreary  days, 
filled  with  sick,  vivid  dreams  of  our  youth  that  is  hardly 
past  as  yet!  And  so  many  dreams,  dear  woman  of  my 
heart!  in  which  the  least  remembered  trifle  brings  back, 
as  if  in  a  flash,  some  corner  of  the  old  castle  and  you  as 
I  saw  you  there, — laughing,  or  insolent,  or,  it  may  be, 
tender.  Ah,  but  you  were  not  often  tender!  Just  for  a 
moment  I  see  you,  and  my  blood  leaps  up  in  homage  to 


314  GALLANTRY 


my  dear  lady.  Then  instantly  that  second  of  actual  vision 
is  over,  I  am  going  prosaically  about  the  day's  business, 
but  I  hunger  more  than  ever — " 

"This,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "is  insanity." 

"Yet  I  love  better  the  dreams  of  the  night,"  de  Cha- 
teauroux  went  on;  "for  they  are  not  made  all  of  mem 
ories,  sweetheart.  Rather,  they  are  romances  which  my 
love  weaves  out  of  multitudinous  memories, — fantastic 
stories  of  just  you  and  me  that  always  end,  if  I  be  left 
to  dream  them  out  in  comfort,  very  happily.  For  there 
is  in  these  dreams  a  woman  who  loves  me,  whose  heart 
and  body  and  soul  are  mine,  and  mine  alone.  Ohe,  it 
is  a  wonderful  vision  while  it  lasts,  though  it  be  only  in 
dreams  that  I  am  master  of  my  heart's  desire,  and  though 
the  waking  be  bitter  .  .  .  !  Need  it  be  just  a  dream, 
Victoria?" 

"Not  but  that  he  does  it  rather  well,  you  know," 
whispered  the  Grand  Duke  to  the  Baroness  von  Alten- 
burg,  "although  the  style  is  florid.  Yet  that  last  speech 
was  quite  in  my  earlier  and  more  rococo  manner." 

The  Grand  Duchess  did  not  stir  as  de  Chateauroux  bent 
over  her  jewelled  hand. 

"Come !  come  now !"  he  said.  "Let  us  not  lose  our 
only  chance  of  happiness.  'Come  forth,  O  Galatea,  and 
forget  as  thou  comest,  even  as  I  already  have  forgot,  the 
homeward  way !  Nay,  choose  with  me  to  go  a- shepherd- 
ing-!'" 

"Oh,  but  to  think  of  dragging  in  Theocritus!"  ob 
served  his  Highness.  "Can  this  be  what  they  call  se 
duction  nowadays!" 

"I  cannot,"  the  Grand  Duchess  whispered,  and  her 
voice  trembled.  "You  know  that  I  cannot,  dear." 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  315 

"You  will  go !"  said  cle  Chateauroux. 

"My  husband—" 

"A  man  who  leaves  you  for  each  new  caprice,  who 
flaunts  his  mistresses  in  the  face  o>f  Europe." 

"My  children—" 

"Eh,  mon  Dieu !  are  they  or  aught  else  to  stand  in  my 
way,  now  that  I  know  you  love  me !" 

" — it  would  be  criminal — " 

"Ah,  yes,  but  then  you  love  me!" 

" — you  act  a  dishonorable  part,  de  Chateauroux, — " 

"That  does  not  matter.     You  love  me!" 

"I  will  never  see  you  again,"  said  the  Grand  Duchess, 
firmly.  "Go!  I  loathe  you,  I  loathe  you,  monsieur, 
even  more  than  I  loathe  myself  for  having  stooped  to 
listen  to  you." 

"You  love  me !"  said  de  Chateauroux,  and  took  her  in 
his  arms. 

Then  the  Grand  Duchess  rested  her  head  upon  the 
shoulder  of  de  Chateauroux,  and  breathed,  "God  help 
me!_yes!" 

"Really,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "I  would  never  have 
thought  it  of  Victoria.  It  seems  incredible  for  any  wom 
an  of  taste  to  be  thus  lured  astray  by  citations  of  the 
almanac  and  secondary  Greek  poets." 

"You  will  come,  then?"  the  Count  said. 

And  the  Grand  Duchess  answered,  quietly,  "It  shall 
be  as  you  will." 

More  lately,  while  the  Grand  Duke  and  the  Baroness 
craned  their  necks,  and  de  Chateauroux  bent,  very  slowly, 
over  her  upturned  lips,  the  Grand  Duchess  struggled  from 
him,  saying,  "Hark,  Philippe!  for  I  heard  some  one — 
something  stirring — " 


316  GALLANTRY 


"It  was  the  wind,  dear  heart." 

"Hasten! — I  am  afraid! — Oh,  it  is  madness  to  wait 
here!" 

"At  dawn,  then — in  the  gardens?" 

"Yes, — ah,  yes,  yes !  But  come,  mon  ami."  And  they 
disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  palace. 

Ill 

The  Grand  Duke  looked  dispassionately  on  their  re 
treating  figures ;  inquiringly  on  the  Baroness ;  reprovingly 
on  the  moon,  as  though  he  rather  suspected  it  of  having 
treated  him  with  injustice. 

"Ma  foi,"  said  his  Highness,  at  length,  "I  have  never 
known  such  a  passion  for  sunrises.  Shortly  we  shall 
have  them  announced  as  'Patronized  by  the  Nobility/  " 

The  Baroness  said  only,  with  an  ellipsis.  "Her  own 
cousin,  too!"1 

"Victoria,"  observed  the  Grand  Duke,  "has  always  had 
the  highest  regard  for  her  family ;  but  in  this  she  is  going 
too  far—" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Baroness;  "as  far  as  Vienna." 

" — and  I  shall  tell  her  that  there  are  limits.  Pardieu," 
the  Grand  Duke  emphatically  repeated,  "that  there  are 
limits." 

"Whereupon,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  she  will  reply  that 
there  are — baronesses." 

"I  shall  then  appeal  to  her  better  nature — " 

*By  courtesy  rather  than  legally;  Mademoiselle  Berlin  was, 
however,  undoubtedly  the  Elector  of  Badenburg*s  sister,  though 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  blanket;  and  to  her  (second)  son  by 
Louis  Quinze  his  French  Majesty  accorded  the  title  of  Comte 
de  Chateauroux. 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  317 

"You  will  find  it,"  said  the  Baroness,  "strangely  hard 
of  hearing." 

" — an<i  afterward  I  shall  have  de  Chateauroux  ar 
rested." 

"On  what  grounds,  your  Highness?" 

"In  fact,"  admitted  the  Grand  Duke,  "we  do  not  want 
a  scandal." 

"It  is  no  longer,"  the  Baroness  considered,  "altogether 
a  question  of  what  we  want." 

"And,  morbleu !  there  will  be  a  horrible  scandal — " 

"The  public  gazettes  will  thrive  on  it." 

" — an(i  trouble  with  her  father,  if  not  international 
complications — " 

"The  armies  of  Noumaria  and  Badenburg  have  for 
years  had  nothing  to  do." 

" — and  later  a  divorce." 

"The  lawyers  will  call  you  blessed.  In  any  event," 
the  Baroness  conscientiously  added,  "your  lawyers  will. 
I  am  afraid  that  hers — " 

"Will  scarcely  be  so  courteous?"  the  Grand  Duke 
queried. 

"It  is  not  altogether  impossible,"  the  Baroness  admit 
ted,  "that  in  preparation  of  their  briefs  they  may  light 
upon  some  other  adjective." 

"And,  in  short,"  his  Highness  summed  it  up,  "there 
will  be  the  deuce  to  pay." 

"Oh,  no!  the  piper,"  said  the  Baroness, — "after  long 
years  of  dancing.  That  is  what  moralists  will  be  say 
ing,  I  suspect." 

And  this  seemed  so  highly  probable  that  the  plump 
little  Grand  Duke  frowned,  and  lapsed  into  a  most  un- 
ducal  sullenness. 


318  GALLANTRY 


"Your  Highness, "  murmured  the  Baroness,  "I  cannot 
express  my  feelings  as  to  this  shocking  revelation — " 

"Madame,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "no  more  can  I.  At 
least,  not  in  the  presence  of  a  lady." 

" — But  I  have  a  plan — " 

"I,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "have  an  infinity  of  plans; 
but  de  Chateauroux  has  a  carriage,  and  a  superfluity  of 
Bourbon  blood ;  and  Victoria  has  the  obstinacy  of  a 
mule." 

" — And  my  plan,"  said  the  Baroness,  "is  a  good  one." 

"It  needs  to  be,"  said  the  Grand  Duke. 

But  thereupon  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg  unfolded  to 
his  Highness  her  scheme  for  preserving  coherency  in  the 
reigning  family  of  Noumaria,  and  the  Grand  Duke  of 
that  principality  heard  and  marvelled. 

"Amalia,"  he  said,  when  she  had  ended,  "you  should 
be  prime-minister — " 

"Ah,  your  Highness,"  said  the  lady,  "you  flatter  me, 
for  none  of  my  sex  has  ever  been  sufficiently  unmanly 
to  make  a  good  politician." 

"—though,  indeed,"  the  Grand  Duke  reflected,  "what 
would  a  mere  prime-minister  do  with  lips  like  yours  ?" 

"He  would  set  you  an  excellent  example  by  admiring 
them  from  a  distance.  Do  you  agree,  then,  to  my  plan  ?" 

"Why,  ma  f  oi,  yes !"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  and  he 
sighed.  "In  the  gardens  at  dawn." 

"At  dawn,"  said  the  Baroness,  "in  the  gardens." 

IV 

That  night  the  Grand  Duke  was  somewhat  impeded  in 
falling  asleep.  He  was  seriously  annoyed  by  the  upset- 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  319 

ment  of  his  escape  from  the  Noumarian  exile,  since  he 
felt  that  he  had  prodigally  fulfilled  his  obligations,  and 
in  consequence  deserved  a  holiday;  the  duchy  was  com 
mitted  past  retreat  to  the  French  alliance,  there  were  two 
legitimate  children  to  reign  after  him,  and  be  the  puppets 
of  de  Puysange  and  de  Bernis,1  just  as  he  had  been. 
Truly,  it  was  diverting,  after  a  candid  appraisal  of  his 
own  merits,  to  reflect  that  a  dwarfish  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
had  succeeded  where  quite  impeccable  people  like  Bayard 
and  du  Guesclin  had  failed ;  by  four  years  of  scandalous 
living  in  Noumarja  he  had  confirmed  the  duchy  to  the 
French  interest,  had  thereby  secured  the  wavering  friend 
ship  of  Austria,  and  had,  in  effect,  set  France  upon  her 
feet.  Yes,  the  deed  was  notable,  and  he  wanted  his 
reward. 

To  be  the  forsaken  husband,  to  play  Sgarnarelle  with 
all  Europe  as  an  audience,  was,  he  considered,  an  entirely 
inadequate  reward.  That  was  out  of  the  question,  for, 
deuce  take  it !  somebody  had  to  be  Regent  while  the  brats 
were  growing  up.  And  Victoria,  as  he  had  said,  would 
make  an  admirable  Regent. 

He  was  rather  fond  of  his  wife  than  otherwise.  He 
appreciated  the  fact  that  she  never  meddled  with  him, 
and  he  sincerely  regretted  she  should  have  taken  a  fancy 
to  that  good-for-nothing  de  Chateauroux.  What  qualms 
the  poor  woman  must  be  feeling  at  this  very  moment 
over  the  imminent  loss  of  her  virtue!  But  love  was  a 

1The  Grand  Duke,  however,  owed  de  Puysange  some  repara 
tion  for  having  begot  a  child  upon  the  latter's  wife:  and  with 
de  Bernis  had  not  dissimilar  ties,  for  the  Marquis  de  Soyecourt 
had  in  Venice,  in  1749,  relinquished  to  him  the  beautiful  nun  of 
Muran,  Maria  Montepulci, — which  lady  de  Bernis  subsequently 
turned  over  to  Giacomo  Casanova,  as  is  duly  recorded  in  the 
latter's  Memoires,  under  the  year  1753. 


320  GALLANTRY 


cruel  and  unreasonable  lord ....  There  was  Nelchen 
Thorn,  for  instance.  .  .  .  He  wondered  would  he  have 
been  happy  with  Nelchen?  her  hands  were  rather  coarse 
about  the  finger-tips,  as  he  remembered  them.  .  .  . 
The  hands  of  Amalia,  though,  were  perfection.  .  .  . 

Then  at  last  the  body  that  had  been  Louis  Quillan's 
fell  asleep. 


Discontentedly  the  Grand  Duke  appraised  the  scene, 
and  in  the  murky  twilight  which  heralded  the  day  he 
found  the  world  a  cheerless  place.  The  Gardens  of 
Breschau  were  deserted,  save  for  a  travelling  carriage 
and  its  fretful  horses,  who  stamped  and  snuffled  within 
forty  yards  of  the  summer-house. 

"It  appears,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  the  first  on  the 
ground,  and  that  de  Chateauroux  is  a  dilatory  lover. 
Young  men  degenerate." 

Saying  this,  he  seated  himself  on  a  convenient  bench, 
where  de  Chateauroux  found  him  a  few  minutes  later, 
and  promptly  dropped  a  portmanteau  at  the  ducal  feet. 

"Monsieur  le  Comte,"  the  Grand  Duke  said,  "this  is  an 
unforeseen  pleasure." 

"Your  Highness!"  cried  de  Chateauroux,  in  astonish 
ment. 

"Ludovicus"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "Dei  gratia  Archi 
Dux  Nouniaritz,  Prince ps  Gatinensis,  and  so  on."  And  de 
Chateauroux  caressed  his  chin. 

"I  did  not  know,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "that  you 
were  such  an  early  riser.  Or  perhaps,"  he  continued, 
"you  are  late  in  retiring.  Fy,  fy,  monsieur!  you  must 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  321 

be  more  careful !  You  must  not  create  a  scandal  in  our 
little  Court."  He  shook  his  ringer  knowingly  at  Philippe 
de  Chateauroux. 

"Your  Highness, — "  said  the  latter,  and  stammered 
into  silence. 

"You  said  that  before,"  the  Grand  Duke  leisurely  ob 
served. 

"An  affair  of  business — " 

"Ah!  ah!  ah!"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  casting  his  eye 
first  toward  the  portmanteau  and  then  toward  the  car 
riage,  "can  it  be  that  you  are  leaving  Noumaria?  We 
shall  miss  you,  Comte." 

"I  was  summoned  very  hastily,  or  I  would  have  paid 
my  respects  to  your  Highness — " 

"Indeed,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "your  departure  is  of 
a  deplorable  suddenness — " 

"It  is  urgent,  your  Highness — " 

" — and  yet,"  pursued  the  Grand  Duke,  "travel  is 
beneficial  to  young  men." 

"I  shall  not  go  far,  your  Highness — " 

"Nay,  I  would  not  for  the  world  intrude  upon  your 
secrets,  Comte — " 

" — But  my  estates,  your  Highness — " 

" — For  young  men  will  be  young  men,  I  know." 

" — There  is,  your  Highness,  to  be  a  sale  of  meadow 
land—" 

"Which  you  will  find,  I  trust,  untilled/' 

" — And  my  counsellor  at  law,  your  Highness,  is  im 
perative—" 

"At  times,"  agreed  the  Grand  Duke,  "the  most  subtle 
of  counsellors  is  unreasonable.  I  trust,  though,  that  she 
is  handsome?" 


322  GALLANTRY 


"Ah,  your  Highness — !"  cried  de  Chateauroux. 

"And  you  have  my  blessing  upon  your  culture  of  those 
meadow  lands.  Go  in  peace." 

The  Grand  Duke  was  smiling  on  his  wife's  kinsman 
with  extreme  benevolence  when  the  Baroness  von  Al- 
tenburg  appeared,  in  travelling  costume  and  carrying  a 
portmanteau. 

VI 

"Heydey!"  said  the  Grand  Duke;  "it  seems  that  the 
legal  representative  of  our  good  Baroness,  also,  is  im 
perative." 

"Your  Highness!"  cried  the  Baroness,  and  she,  too, 
dropped  her  burden. 

"Every  one,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "appears  to  ques 
tion  my  identity."  And  meantime  de  Chateauroux 
turned  from  the  one  to  the  other  in  bewilderment. 

"This,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  after  a  pause,  "is  pain 
ful.  This  is  unworthy  of  you,  de  Chateauroux." 

"Your  Highness — !"  cried  the  Count. 

"Again?"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  pettishly. 

The  Baroness  applied  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes, 
and  plaintively  said,  "You  do  not  understand,  your 
Highness — " 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "that  I  under 
stand  only  too  clearly." 

" — and  I  confess  I  was  here  to  meet  Monsieur  de 
Chateauroux — " 

"Oh,  oh !"  cried  the  latter. 

"Precisely,"  observed  the  Grand  Duke,  "to  compare 
portmanteaux;  and  you  had  selected  the  interior  of 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  323 

yonder  carriage,  no  doubt,  as  an  appropriate  locality." 

"And  I  admit  to  your  Highness — " 

"His  Highness  already  knowing,"  the  Grand  Duke 
interpolated. 

" — that  we  were  about  to  elope." 

"I  can  assure  you — "  de  Chateauroux  began. 

"Nay,  I  will  take  the  lady's  word  for  it,"  said  the 
Grand  Duke — "though  it  grieves  me." 

"We  knew  you  would  never  give  your  consent,"  mur 
mured  the  Baroness,  "and  without  your  consent  I  can 
not  marry — " 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "I  would  never 
have  given  my  consent  to  such  fiddle-faddle." 

"And  we  love  each  other." 

"Fiddle-de-dee!"  said  his  Highness. 

But  de  Chateauroux  passed  one  hand  over  his  brow. 
"This,"  he  said,  "is  some  horrible  mistake — " 

"It  is,"  assented  the  Grand  Duke,  "a  mistake — and 
one  of  your  making." 

" — For  I  certainly  did  not  expect  the  Baroness — " 

"To  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  so  readily?"  his  High 
ness  asked.  "Ah,  but  she  is  a  lady  of  unusual  candor." 

"Indeed,  your  Highness — "  began  de  Chateauroux. 

"Nay,  Philippe,"  the  Baroness  entreated,  "confess  to 
his  Highness,  as  I  have  done." 

"Oh,  but—!"  said  de  Chateauroux. 

"I  must  beseech  you  to  be  silent,"  said  the  Grand  Duke ; 
"you  have  already  brought  scandal  to  our  Court.  Do  not, 
I  pray  you,  add  profanity  to  the  catalogue  of  your  of 
fences.  Why,  I  protest,"  he  continued,  "even  the  Grand 
Duchess  has  heard  of  this  imbroglio." 

Indeed,  the  Grand  Duchess,  hurrying  from  a  pleached 


324  GALLANTRY 


walkway,  was  already  within  a  few  feet  of  the  trio,  and 
appeared  no  little  surprised  to  find  in  this  place  her 
husband. 

"I  would  not  be  surprised,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  rais 
ing  his  eyes  toward  heaven,  "if  by  this  time  it  were  all 
over  the  palace." 

VII 

Then,  as  his  wife  waited,  speechless,  the  Grand  Duke 
gravely  asked :  "You,  too,  have  heard  of  this  sad  affair, 
Victoria?  Ah,  I  perceive  you  have,  and  that  you  come 
in  haste  to  prevent  it, — even  to  pursue  these  misguided 
beings,  if  necessary,  as  the  fact  that  you  come  already 
dressed  for  the  journey  very  eloquently  shows.  You 
are  self-sacrificing,  you  possess  a  good  heart,  Victoria." 

"I  did  not  know — "  began  the  Grand  Duchess. 

"Until  the  last  moment,"  the  Grand  Duke  finished. 
"Eh,  I  comprehend.  But  perhaps,"  he  continued,  hope 
fully,  "it  is  not  yet  too  late  to  bring  them  to  their  senses." 

Aud  turning  toward  the  Baroness  and  de  Chateauroux, 
he  said : 

"I  may  not  hinder  your  departure  if  you  two  in  truth 
are  swayed  by  love,  since  to  control  that  passion  is  im 
measurably  beyond  the  prerogative  of  kings.  Yet  I  beg 
you  to  reflect  that  the  step  you  contemplate  is  irrevocable. 
Yes,  and  to  you,  madame,  whom  I  have  long  viewed  with 
a  paternal  affection — an  emotion  wholly  justified  by  the 
age  and  rank  for  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  pre 
serve  me,— to  you  in  particular  I  would  address  my  plea. 
If  with  an  entire  heart  you  love  Monsieur  de  Chateau 
roux,  why,  then — why,  then,  I  concede  that  love  is  divine, 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  325 

and  yonder  carriage  at  your  disposal.  But  I  beg  you  to 
reflect—" 

"Believe  me,"  said  the  Baroness,  "we  are  heartily  grate 
ful  for  your  Highness'  magnanimity.  We  may,  I  de 
duce,  depart  with  your  permission?" 

"Oh,  freely,  if  upon  reflection — " 

"I  can  reflect  only  when  I  am  sitting  down,"  declared 
the  Baroness.  She  handed  her  portmanteau  to  de  Cha- 
teauroux,  and  stepped  into  the  carriage.  And  the  Grand 
Duke  noted  that  a  coachman  and  two  footmen  had  ap 
peared,  from  nowhere  in  particular. 

"To  you,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  his  Highness  now  began, 
with  an  Olympian  frown,  "I  have  naught  to  say.  Under 
the  cover  of  our  hospitality  you  have  endeavored  to  steal 
away  the  fairest  ornament  of  our  Court;  I  leave  you  to 
the  pangs  of  conscience,  if  indeed  you  possess  a  con 
science.  But  the  Baroness  is  unsophisticated;  she  has 
been  misled  by  your  fallacious  arguments  and  specious 
pretence  of  affection.  She  has  evidently  been  misled," 
he  said  to  the  Grand  Duchess,  kindly,  "as  any  woman 
might  be." 

"As  any  woman  might  be !"  his  wife  very  feebly  echoed. 

"And  I  shall  therefore,"  continued  the  Grand  Duke, 
"do  all  within  my  power  to  dissuade  her  from-  this  ruin 
ous  step.  I  shall  appeal  to  her  better  nature,  and  not,  I 
trust,  in  vain." 

He  advanced  with  dignity  to  the  carriage,  wherein  the 
Baroness  was  seated.  "Amalia,"  he  whispered,  "you  are 
an  admirable  actress.  *O  wonderful,  wonderful,  and 
most  wonderful  wonderful!  and  yet  again  wonderful, 
and  after  that  out  of  all  whooping!" 

The  Baroness  smiled. 


326  GALLANTRY 


"And  it  is  now  time,"  said  his  Highness,  "for  me  to 
appeal  to  your  better  nature.  I  shall  do  so  in  a  rather 
loud  voice,  for  I  have  prepared  a  most  virtuous  homily 
that  I  am  unwilling  the  Grand  Duchess  should  miss. 
You  will  at  its  conclusion  be  overcome  with  an  appro 
priate  remorse,  and  will  obligingly  burst  into  tears,  and 
throw  yourself  at  my  feet — pray  remember  that  the  left 
is  the  gouty  one, — and  be  forgiven.  You  will  then  be 
restored  to  favor,  while  de  Chateauroux  drives  off  alone 
and  in  disgrace.  Your  plan  works  wonderfully." 

"It  is  true,"  the  Baroness  doubtfully  said,  "such  was 
the  plan." 

"And  a  magnificent  one,"  said  the  Grand  Duke. 

"But  I  have  altered  it,  your  Highness." 

"And  this  alteration,  Amalia — ?" 

"Involves  a  trip  to  Vienna:" 

"Not  yet,  Amalia.     We  must  wait." 

"Oh,  I  could  never  endure  delays,"  said  the  Baroness, 
"and,  since  you  cannot  accompany  me,  I  am  going  with 
Monsieur  de  Chateauroux." 

The  Grand  Duke  grasped  the  carriage  door. 

"Preposterous!"  he  cried. 

"But  you  have  given  your  consent,"  the  Baroness  pro 
tested,  "and  in  the  presence  of  the  Grand  Duchess." 

"Which,"  said  the  Grand  Duke,  "was  part  of  our  plan." 

"Indeed,  your  Highness,"  said  the  Baroness,  "it  was 
a  most  important  part.  You  must  know,"  she  continued, 
with  some  diffidence,  "that  I  have  the  misfortune  to  love 
Monsieur  de  Chateauroux." 

"Who  is  in  love  with  Victoria." 

"I  have  the  effrontery  to  believe,"  said  the  Baroness, 
"that  he  is,  in  reality,  in  love  with  me." 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  327 

"Especially  after  hearing  him  last  night,"  the  Grand 
Duke  suggested. 

"That  scene,  your  Highness,  we  had  carefully  rehearsed 
— oh,  seven  or  eight  times!  Personally,  I  agreed  with 
your  Highness  that  the  quotation  from  Theocritus  was 
pedantic,  but  Philippe  insisted  on  it,  you  conceive — " 

The  Grand  Duke  gazed  meditatively  upon  the  Baroness, 
who  had  the  grace  to  blush. 

"Then  it  was,"  he  asked,  "a  comedy  for  my  benefit?" 

"You  would  never  have  consented — "  she  began.  But 
the  Grand  Duke's  countenance,  which  was  slowly  altering 
to  a  greenish  pallor,  caused  her  to  pause. 

"You  will  get  over  it  in  a  week,  Louis,"  she  murmured, 
"and  you  will  find  other — baronesses." 

"Oh,  very  probably !"  said  his  Highness,  and  he  noted 
with  pleasure  that  he  spoke  quite  as  if  it  did  not  matter. 
"Nevertheless,  this  was  a  despicable  trick  to  play  upon 
the  Grand  Duchess." 

''Yet  I  do  not  think  the  Grand  Duchess  will  complain," 
said  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg. 

And  it  was  as  though  a  light  broke  on  the  Grand  Duke. 
"You  planned  all  this  beforehand?"  he  inquired. 

"Why,  precisely,  your  Highness." 

"And  de  Chateauroux  helped  you?" 

<;In  effect,  yes,  your  Highness." 

"And  the  Grand  Duchess  knew?" 

"The  Grand  Duchess  suggested  it,  your  Highness,  the 
moment  that  she  knew  you  thought  of  eloping." 

"And  I,  who  tricked  Gaston— !" 

"Louis,"  said  the  Baroness  von  Altenburg,  in  a  semi- 
whisper,  "your  wife  is  one  of  those  persons  who  cling  to 
respectability  like  a  tippler  to  his  bottle.  To  her  It  is 


328  GALLANTRY 


absolutely  nothing  how  many  women  you  may  pursue — 
or  conquer — so  long  as  you  remain  here  under  her  thumb, 
to  be  exhibited,  in  fair  sobriety,  upon  the  necessary  public 
occasions.  I  pity  you,  my  Louis."  And  she  sighed  with 
real  compassion. 

He  took  possession  of  one  gloved  hand.  "At  the  bot 
tom  of  your  heart,"  his  Highness  said,  irrelevantly,  "you 
like  me  better  than  you  do  Monsieur  de  Chateauroux." 

"I  find  you  the  more  entertaining  company,  to  be  sure — 
But  what  a  woman  most  wants  is  to  be  loved.  If  I  touch 
Philippe's  hand  for,  say,  the  millionth  part  of  a  second 
longer  than  necessity  compels,  he  treads  for  the  remainder 
of  the  day  above  meteors;  if  yours — why,  you  at  most 
admire  my  fingers.  No  doubt  you  are  a  connoisseur  of 
fingers  and  such-like  trifles;  but,  then,  a  woman  does 
not  wish  to  be  admired  by  a  connoisseur  so  much  as  she 
hungers  to  be  adored  by  a  maniac.  And  accordingly,  I 
prefer  my  stupid  Philippe." 

"You  are  wise,"  the  Grand  Duke  estimated.  "I  re 
member  long  ago  ...  in  Poictesme  yonder.  ..." 

"I  loathe  her,"  the  Baroness  said,  with  emphasis. 
"Nay,  I  am  ignorant  as  to  who  she  was — but  O  my 
Louis!  had  you  accorded  me  a  tithe  of  the  love  you 
squandered  on  that  abominable  dairymaid  I  would  have 
followed  you  not  only  to  Vienna — " 

He  raised  his  hand.  "There  are  persons  yonder  in 
whom  the  proper  emotions  are  innate;  let  us  not  shock 
them.  No,  I  never  loved  you,  I  suppose;  I  merely  liked 
your  way  of  talking,  liked  your  big  green  eyes,  liked  your 
lithe  young  body.  .  .  .  He,  and  I  like  you  still,  Amalia. 
So  I  shall  not  play  the  twopenny  despot.  God  be  with 
you,  my  dear." 


THE  DUCAL  AUDIENCE  329 

He  had  seen  tears  in  those  admirable  eyes  before  he 
turned  his  back  to  her.  "Monsieur  de  Chateauroux,"  he 
called,  "I  find  the  lady  is  adamant.  I  wish  you  a  pleasant 
journey."  He  held  open  the  door  of  the  carriage  for  de 
Chateauroux  to  enter. 

"You  will  forgive  us,  your  Highness?"  asked  the 
latter. 

"You  will  forget?"  murmured  the  Baroness. 

"I  shall  do  both,"  said  the  Grand  Duke.  "Bon  voy 
age,  mes  enfants !" 

And  with  a  cracking  of  whips  the  carriage  drove  off. 

"Victoria,"  said  the  plump  little  Grand  Duke,  in  ad 
miration,  "you  are  a  remarkable  woman.  I  think  that  I 
will  walk  for  a  while  in  the  gardens,  and  meditate  upon 
the  perfections  of  my  wife." 

VIII 

He  strolled  in  the  direction  of  the  woods.  As  he 
reached  the  summit  of  a  slight  incline  he  turned  and 
looked  toward  the  road  that  leads  from  Breschau  to 
Vienna.  A  cloud  of  dust  showed  where  the  carriage  had 
disappeared. 

"Ma  foi !"  said  his  Highness ;  "my  wife  has  very  fully 
proven  her  executive  ability.  Beyond  doubt,  there  is  no 
person  in  Europe  better  qualified  to  rule  Noumaria  as 
Regent." 


LOVE'S  ALUMNI :  THE  AFTERPIECE 

As  Played  at  Ingilby,  October  6,  1755 

"Though  marriage  be  a  lottery,  in  which  there  are  a 
wondrous  many  blanks,  yet  there  is  one  inestimable  lot, 
in  which  the  only  heaven  on  earth  is  written.  Would 
your  kind  fate  but  guide  your  hand  to  that,  though  I  were 
wrapt  in  all  that  luxury  itself  could  clothe  me  with,  I  still 
should  envy  you." 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

DUKE  OF  ORMSKIRK. 

Louis  DE  SOYECOURT,  formerly  GRAND  DUKE  OF  Nou- 
MARIA,  and  now  a  tuner  of  pianofortes. 

DUG  DE  PUYSANGE. 

DAMIENS,  servant  to  Ormskirk. 

In  Dumb  Show  are  presented  LORD  HUMPHREY  DEGGE, 
CAPTAIN  FRANCIS  AUDAINE,  MR.  GEORGE  ERWYN, 
DUCHESS  OF  ORMSKIRK,  DUCHESSE  DE  PUYSANGE, 
LADY  HUMPHREY  DEGGE,  MRS.  AUDAINE,  and  MRS. 
ERWYN. 

SCENE 

The  library,  and  afterward  the  dining-room,  of  Orms- 
kirk's  home  at  Ingilby,  in  Westmoreland. 


LOVE'S  ALUMNI 
PROEM: — Wherein  a  Prince  Serves  His  People 

THE  Grand  Duke  did  not  return  to  breakfast  nor 
to  dinner,  nor,  in  point  of  fact,  to  Noumaria. 
For  the  second  occasion  Louis  de  Soyecourt  had 
vanished  at  the  spiriting  of  boredom ;  and  it  is  gratifying 
to  record  that  his  evasion  passed  without  any  train  of 
turmoil. 

The  Grand  Duchess  seemed  to  disapprove  of  her  be 
reavement,  mildly,  but  only  said,  "Well,  after  all — !" 

She  saw  to  it  that;  the  ponds  about  the  palace  were 
dragged  conscientiously,  and  held  an  interview  with  the 
Chief  of  Police,  and  more  lately  had  herself  declared 
Regent  of  Noumaria. 

She  proved  a  capable  and  popular  ruler,  who  when  she 
began  to  take  lovers  allowed  none  of  them  to  meddle  with 
politics  :  so  all  went  well  enough  in  Noumaria,  and  nobody 
evinced  the  least  desire  to  hasten  either  the  maturity  of 
young  Duke  Anthony  or  the  reappearance  of  his  father. 


Meantime  had  come  to  Ingilby,  the  Duke  of  Ormskirk's 
place  in  Westmoreland,  a  smallish  blue-eyed  vagabond 
who  requested  audience  with  his  Grace,  and  presently  got 
it,  for  the  Duke,  since  his  retirement  from  public  affairs,1 

1  He  returned  to  office  during  the  following  year,  as  is  well 
known,  immediately  before  the  attempted  assassination  of  the 
French  King,  in  the  January  of  1757. 

333 


334  GALLANTRY 


had  become  approachable  by  almost  any  member  of  the 
public. 

The  man  came  into  the  library,  smiling.  "I  entreat 
your  pardon,  Monsieur  le  Due/'  he  began,  "that  I  have 
not  visited  you  sooner.  But  in  unsettled  times,  you 
comprehend,  the  master  of  a  beleaguered  fortress  is  kept 
busy.  This  poor  fortress  of  my  body  has  been  of  late 
most  resolutely  besieged  by  poverty  and  hunger,  the  while 
that  I  have  been  tramping  about  Europe  in  search  of 
Gaston.  Now,  they  tell  me,  he  is  here." 

The  travesty  of  their  five-year-old  interview  at  Belle- 
garde  so  tickled  Ormskirk's  fancy  that  he  laughed 
heartily.  "Damiens,"  said  Ormskirk,  to  the  attendant 
lackey,  "go  fetch  me  a  Protestant  minister  from  Manne- 
ville,  and  have  a  gallows  erected  in  one  of  the  drawing- 
rooms.  I  intend  to  pay  off  an  old  score."  Meantime  he 
was  shaking  the  little  vagabond's  hand,  chuckling,  and 
a-beam  with  hospitality. 

"Your  Grace — !"  said  Damiens,  bewildered. 

"Well,  go,  in  any  event,"  said  Ormskirk.  "Oh,  go  any 
where,  man! — to  the  devil,  for  instance." 

His  eyes  followed  the  retreating  lackey.  "As  I  sus 
pect  in  the  end  you  will,"  Ormskirk  said,  inconsequently. 
"Still,  you  are  a  very  serviceable  fellow,  my  good 
Damiens.  I  have  need  of  you." 

And  with  a  shrug  he  now  began,  "Your  Highness, — " 

"Praise  God,  no !"  observed  the  other,  fervently. 

And  Ormskirk  nodded  his  comprehension.  "Monsieur 
de  Soyecourt,  then.  Of  course,  we  heard  of  your  disap 
pearance.  I  have  been  expecting  something  of  the  sort 
for  years.  And,  frankly,  politics  are  often  a  nuisance, 
as  both  Gaston  and  myself  will  willingly  attest, — espe- 


LOVE'S    ALUMNI  335 


cially,"  he  added,  with  a  grimace,  "since  war  between 
France  and  England  became  inevitable  through  the  late 
happenings  in  India  and  Nova  Scotia,  and  both  our  wives 
flatly  declined  to  let  either  of  us  take  part  therein, — for 
fear  we  might  catch  our  death  of  cold  by  sleeping  in 
those  draughty  tents.  Faith,  you  have  descended,  sir, 
like  an  agreeable  meteor,  upon  two  of  the  most  scandal 
ously  henpecked  husbands  in  all  the  universe.  In  fact, 
you  will  not  find  a  gentleman  at  Ingilby — save  Mr. 
Erwyn,  perhaps — but  is  an  abject  slave  to  his  wife,  and 
in  consequence  most  abjectly  content." 

"You  have  guests,  then  ?"  said  de  Soyecourt.  "Ma  foi, 
it  is  unfortunate.  I  but  desired  to  confer  with  Gaston 
concerning  the  disposal  of  Beaujolais  and  my  other  prop 
erties  in  France  since  I  find  that  the  sensation  of  hunger, 
while  undoubtedly  novel,  is,  when  too  long  continued,  apt 
to  grow  tiresome.  I  Would  not  willingly  intrude,  how 
ever — " 

"Were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  you  are  wealthy,  and 
yet,  so  long  as  you  preserve  your  incognito,  and  remain 
legally  dead,  you  cannot  touch  a -penny  of  your  fortune! 
The  situation  is  droll.  We  must  arrange  it.  Meanwhile 
you  are  my  guest,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  at  Ingilby 
you  will  be  to  all  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt,  no  more  and 
no  less.  Now  let  us  see  what  can  be  done  about  clothing 
Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  for  dinner — " 

"But  I  could  not  consider — "  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt 
protested. 

"I  must  venture  to  remind  you,"  the  Duke  retorted, 
"that  dinner  is  almost  ready,  and  that  Claire  is  the  sort 
of  housewife  who  would  more  readily  condone  fratricide 
or  arson  than  cold  soup." 


336  GALLANTRY 


"It  is  odd,"  little  de  Soyecourt  said,  with  complete 
irrelevance,  "that  in  the  end  I  should  get  aid  of  you  and 
of  Gaston.  And  it  is  odd  you  should  be  forgiving  my 
bungling  attempts  at  crime,  so  lightly — " 

Ormskirk  considered,  a  new  gravity  in  his  plump  face. 
"Faith,  but  we  find  it  more  salutary,  in  looking  back,  to 
consider  some  peccadilloes  of  our  own.  And  we  bear  no 
malice,  Gaston  and  I, — largely,  I  suppose,  because  con 
tentment  is  a  great  encourager  of  all  the  virtues.  Then, 
too,  we  remember  that  to  each  of  us,  at  the  eleventh 
hour,  and  through  no  merit  of  his  own,  was  given  the 
one  thing  worth  while  in  life.  We  did  not  merit  it ;  few 
of  us  merit  anything,  for  few  of  us  are  at  bottom  either 
very  good  or  very  bad.  Nay,  my  friend,  for  the  most 
part  we  are  blessed  or  damned  as  Fate  elects,  and  hence 
her  favorites  may  not  in  reason  contemn  her  victims. 
For  myself,  I  observe  the  king  upon  his  throne  and  the 
thief  upon  his  coffin,  in  passage  for  the  gallows;  and  I 
pilfer  my  phrase  and  I  apply  it  to  either  spectacle :  There, 
but  for  the  will  of  God,  sits  John  Bulmer.  I  may  not 
understand,  I  may  not  question ;  I  can  but  accept.  Now, 
then,  let  us  prepare  for  dinner,"  he  ended,  in  quite  an 
other  tone. 

De  Soyecourt  yielded.  He  was  shown  to  his  rooms, 
and  Ormskirk  rang  for  Damiens,  whom  the  Duke  was 
sending  into  France  to  attend  to  a  rather  important 
assassination. 


II 


At  dinner  Louis  de  Soyecourt  made  divers  observa 
tions. 


LOVE'S    ALUMNI  337 

First  Gaston  had  embraced  him.  "And  the  de  Gatinais 
estates? — but  beyond  question,  my  dear  Louis!  Next 
•week  we  return  to  France,  and  the  affair  is  easily  ar 
ranged.  You  may  abdicate  in  due  form,  you  need  no 
longer  skulk  about  Europe  disguised  as  a  piano-tuner ;  it 
is  all  one  to  France,  you  conceive,  whether  you  or  your 
son  reign  in  Noumaria.  You  should  have  come  to  me 
sooner.  As  for  your  having  been  in  love  with  my  wife, 
I  could  not  well  quarrel  with  that,  since  the  action  would 
seriously  reflect  upon  my  own  taste,  who  am  still  most 
hideously  in  love  with  her." 

Helene  had  stoutened.  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  noted 
also  that  Helene's  gold  hair  was  silvering  now,  as  though 
Time  had  tangled  cobwebs  through  it,  and  that  Gaston 
was  profoundly  unconscious  of  the  fact.  In  Gaston's 
eyes  she  was  at  the  most  seventeen.  Well,  Helene  had 
always  been  admirable  in  her  management  of  all,  and 
it  would  be  diverting  to  see  that  youngest  child  of  hers 
....  Meanwhile  it  was  diverting  also  to  observe  how 
conscientiously  she  was  exerting  a  good  influence  over 
Gaston :  and  de  Soyecourt  smiled  to  find  that  she  shook 
her  head  at  Gaston's  third  glass,  and  that  de  Puysange 
did  not  venture  on  a  fourth.  Victoria,  to  do  her  justice, 
had  never  meddled  with  any  of  her  husband's  vices  .  .  . 

As  for  the  Duchess  of  Ormskirk,  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
had  known  from  the  beginning — in  comparative  youth- 
fulness, — that  Claire  would  placidly  order  her  portion  of 
the  world  as  she  considered  expedient,  and  that  Orms 
kirk  would  travesty  her,  and  somewhat  bewilder  her,  and 
that  in  the  ultimate  Ormskirk  would  obey  her  to  the 
letter. 

Captain  Audaine  Monsieur  de  Soyecourt  considered  at 


338  GALLANTRY 


the  start  diverting,  and  in  the  end  a  pompous  bore.  Yet 
they  assured  him  that  Audaine  was  getting  on  prodigious 
ly  in  the  House  of  Commons,1 — as,  ma  foi!  he  would 
most  naturally  do,  since  his  metier  was  simply  to  shout 
well-rounded  common-places, — and  the  circumstance  that 
he  shouted  would  always  attract  attention,  while  the  fact 
that  he  shouted  platitudes  would  invariably  prevent  his 
giving  offence.  Lord  Humphrey  Degge  was  found  a 
ruddy  and  comely  person,  of  no  especial  importance,  but 
de  Soyecourt  avidly  took  note  of  Mr.  Erwyn's  waist 
coat.  Why,  this  man  was  a  genius !  Monsieur  de  Soye 
court  at  first  glance  decided.  Staid,  demure  even,  yet 
with  a  quiet  prodigality  of  color  and  ornament,  an  in- 
evitableness  of  cut —  Oh,  beyond  doubt,  this  man  was 
a  genius! 

As  for  the  ladies  at  Ingilby,  they  were  adjudged  to  be 
handsome  women,  one  and  all,  but  quite  unattractive, 
since  they  evinced  not  any  excessive  interest  in  Monsieur 
de  Soyecourt.  Here  was  no  sniff  of  future  conquest, 
not  one  side-long  glance,  but  merely  three  wives  unblush- 
ingly  addicted  to  their  own  husbands.  Eh  bien!  these 
were  droll  customs ! 

Yet  in  the  little  man  woke  a  vague  suspicion,  as  he  sat 
among  these  contented  folk,  that,  after  all,  they  had  per 
haps  attained  to  something  very  precious  of  which  his 
own  life  had  been  void,  to  a  something  of  which  he  could 
not  even  form  a  conception.  Love,  of  course,  he  under 
stood,  with  thoroughness;  no  man  alive  had  loved  more 
ardently  and  variously  than  Louis  de  Soyecourt.  But 

1  The  Captain's  personal  quarrel  with  the  Chevalier  St.  George 
and  its  remarkable  upshot,  at  Antwerp,  as  well  as  the  Captain's 
subsequent  renunciation  of  Jacobitism,  are  best  treated  of  in 
Garendon's  own  memoirs. 


LOVE'S    ALUMNI  339 


what  the  devil!  love  was  a  temporary  delusion,  an  in 
genious  device  of  Nature's  to  bring  about  perpetuation 
of  the  species.  It  was  a  pleasurable  insanity  which  in 
duced  you  to  take  part  in  a  rather  preposterously  silly 
and  undignified  action:  and  once  this  action  was  per 
formed,  the  insanity,  of  course,  gave  way  to  mutual  tol 
erance,  or  to  dislike,  or,  more  preferably,  as  de  Soyecourt 
considered,  to  a  courteous  oblivion  of  the  past. 

And  yet  when  this  Audaine,  to  cite  one  instance  only, 
had  vented  some  particularly  egregious  speech  that  ex 
quisite  wife  of  his  would  merely  smile,  in  a  fond,  half- 
musing  way.  She  had  twice  her  husband's  wit,  and  was 
cognizant  of  the  fact,  beyond  doubt;  to  any  list  of  his 
faults  and  weaknesses  you  could  have  compiled  she  in 
dubitably  might  have  added  a  dozen  items,  familiar  to 
herself  alone:  and  with  all  this,  it  was  clamant  that  she 
preferred  Audaine  to  any  possible  compendium  of  the 
manly  virtues.  Why,  in  comparison,  she  would  have 
pished  at  a  seraph ! — after  five  years  of  his  twaddle,  mark 
you.  And  Helene  seemed  to  be  really  not  much  more 
sensible  about  Gaston.  .  .  . 

It  all  was  quite  inexplicable.  Yet  Louis  de  Soyecourt 
could  see  that  not  one  of  these  folk  was  blind  to  his  or 
her  yoke-fellow's  frailty,  but  that,  beside  this  something 
very  precious  to  which  they  had  attained,  and  he  had 
never  attained,  a  man's  foible,  or  a  woman's  defect, 
dwindled  into  insignificance.  Here,  then,  were  people 
who,  after  five  years'  consortment, — consciously  defiant 
of  time's  corrosion,  of  the  guttering-out  of  desire,  of  the 
gross  and  daily  disillusions  of  a  life  in  common,  and  even 
of  the  daily  fret  of  all  trivialities  shared  and  diversely 
viewed, — who  could  yet  smile  and  say:  "No,  my  com- 


340  GALLANTRY 


panion  is  not  quite  the  perfect  being  I  had  imagined. 
What  does  it  matter  ?  I  am  content.  I  would  have  noth 
ing  changed." 

Well,  but  Victoria  had  not  been  like  that.  She  let  you 
go  to  the  devil  in  your  own  way,  without  meddling,  but 
she  irritated  you  all  the  while  by  holding  herself  to  a 
mark.  She  had  too  many  lofty  ideas  about  her  own 
duties  and  principles, — much  such  uncompromising 
fancies  as  had  led  his  father  to  get  rid  of  that  little 
Nelchen.  .  .  .  No,  there  was  no  putting  up  with  these 
rigid  virtues,  day  in  and  day  out.  These  high-flown 
notions  about  right  and  wrong  upset  your  living,  they 
fretted  your  luckless  associates.  .  .  .  These  people  here 
at  Ingilby,  by  example,  made  no  pretensions  to  immac 
ulacy;  instead,  they  kept  their  gallant  compromise  with 
imperfection ;  and  they  seemed  happy  enough.  .  .  .  There 
might  be  a  moral  somewhere :  but  he  could  not  find  it. 


CURTAIN 


THE  EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN  BY  ORMSKIRK,  WHO  ENTERS  IN  A  FRET 

A  thankless  task !  to  come  to  you  and  mar 
Your  dwindling  appetite  for  caviar, 
And  so  I  told  him! 

[He  calls  withi*. 
Sir,  the  critics  sneer, 

And  swear  the  thing  is  "crude  and  insincere" ! 
"Too  trivial"!  or  for  an  instant  pause 
And  doubly  damn  with  negligent  applause ! 
Impute,  in  fine,  the  prowess  of  the  Vicar 
Less  to  repentance  than  to  too  much  liquor! 
Find  Louis  naught!  de  Gatinais  inane! 
Gaston  unvital,  and  George  Erwyn  vain, 
And  Degge  the  futile  fellow  of  Audaine! 
Nay,  sir,  no  Epilogue  avails  to  save — 
You're  damned,  and  Bulmer's  hooted  as  a  knave. 

[He  retires  behind  the  curtain  and  is  thrust  out 
again.    He  resolves  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

The  author's  obdurate,  and  bids  me  say 
That—since  the  doings  of  our  far-off  day 
Smacked  less  of  Hippocrene  than  of  Bohea— 
His  tiny  pictures  of  that  tiny  time 
Aim  little  at  the  lofty  and  sublime, 
And  paint  no  peccadillo  as  a  crime — 
Since  when  illegally  light  midges  mate, 
Or  flies  purloin,  or  gnats  assassinate, 
No  sane  man  hales  them  to  the  magistrate. 

Or  so  he  says.    He  merely  strove  to  find 
And  fix  a  faithful  likeness  of  mankind 
341 


342  GALLANTRY 


About  its  daily  business, — to  secure 

No  full-length  portrait,  but  a  miniature, — 

And  for  it  all  no  moral  can  procure. 

Let  Bulmer,  then,  defend  his  old-world  crew, 
And  beg  indulgence — nay,  applause — of  you. 

Grant  that  we  tippled  and  were  indiscreet, 
And  that  our  idols  all  had  earthen  feet; 
Grant  that  we  made  of  life  a  masquerade, 
And  swore  a  deal  more  loudly  than  we  prayed; 
Grant  none  of  us  the  man  his  Maker  meant, — 
Our1  deeds,  the  parodies  of  our  intent, 
In  neither  good  nor  ill  pre-eminent; 
Grant  none  of  us  a  Nero, — none  a  martyr, — 
All  merely  so-so. 

And  de  te  narratur. 


EXPLICIT 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


rvi';;     1 

lQ2fi 

v->  i    I  c  rt  n  n 

wnv     o 

1  noc* 

:         8JUID888 

IMUV     ^ 

1  936 

FES  18  1937 

FEB  18 


JULIO  ' 


194 


VB  32297 


/ 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


